The Sickening Sport
by MadameGiry25
Summary: When Moriarty makes the first move in what will become a deadly game of chess, Holmes will find himself stretched to his mental and physical limits. London will tremble as these lords of darkness and light clash in a number of skirmishes that will lead to the final battle. Those close to Holmes will suffer as Moriarty displays an uncanny knack for horror...
1. The Stitching

**Welcome to the first chapter of the long awaited sequel to ****The Ghost Map****! I certainly hope that you find this enjoyable. I'm writing this story in what will eventually be the same style as GM (once I've revised it) and this is quite experimental on my part. Therefore, I will be relying on your feedback to see what works and what doesn't. I think that you'll understand what I mean once you begin to read.**

**This is quite a fun project for me so my hope is that you enjoy reading every bit as much as I enjoy writing. **

**Without further ado, here is Chapter 1 of ****The Sickening Sport****!**

* * *

There was a point when I would never have taken up a pen in this manner. It has long been the duty and pleasure of my friend Watson to record our adventures, as he so loves to call them. I have long disapproved of his tendency to embellish the plain, hard facts and to weave a tale of wonder where there should simply be facts. However, you are no doubt aware the fact that I am no stranger to the writing up of my own cases. In the case of the Blanched Soldier, so aptly named by my good friend Watson, I admitted to having the realization that one must present a case in such a way as may interest the reader.

In the case of this particular adventure, however, I must admit to not caring if readers find my tale to be of interest.

It has come to my attention that certain members of the public (who shall remain unnamed for the time being, though the observant reader will know exactly to whom I refer) have been publishing false accounts of the past few months in more than one prominent newspaper. This is unacceptable and I have thus decided that it is my duty to inform the public of the true circumstances behind the death of Martha Hudson, the fire at the Tower, and the disappearance of John Watson.

This case is complex and has the potential of becoming tedious if I record the facts from memory. Therefore, I shall be brief in my own commentary and compile other sources in order to present the most accurate account within my power.

Naturally, much to the dismay of his faithful readers, the commentary of John Watson will not appear with the exception of diary accounts that I now make public with his express permission. The reason for this permission will become apparent in time. In addition to these diary entries, I will also include drafts that were composed, as Watson had begun to write up this case before his premature departure.

I shall begin my tale by calling to mind a series of events that will likely be fresh in the reader's mind: the great cholera epidemic, which ended two years previous to the publishing of this account in the year 1895.

The common reader will be unaware of the true villain behind the deliberate spreading of the disease. Suffice it to say that the epidemic was triggered at the hand of the Napoleon of crime, Professor James Moriarty. Not directly, naturally. But it was his doing that sponsored the contagion, if you will. Together with Colonel Sebastian Moran, they set out to secure my attention.

At this point of my story, my friend Watson would surely accuse me of self importance and inform me that the reader would call me vain. But if the reader would care to stretch his mind so far as to read Watson's compilation of this case, he would discover this to be undeniably true. And this simple fact became a great deal more apparent as time when on.

I must crave the reader's indulgence now, before I get to the true narrative. It is my intention to report the facts of this story as they occurred, without any hint of sentiment. But I fear that my own sadness will give the entire tale a hint of sorrow. And for that, I humbly apologize.

As I write these words, my attention now turns to numerous diary pages that litter the table on which my page rests. The crisp, practiced handwriting of Martha Hudson stands out, though the pages are spattered with an unhealthy combination of cooking grease, numerous batters, as well as blood. The scrawl of the accomplished writer John Watson sings proudly from pages with ragged edges and torn accounts.

In addition to these private accounts of sentiment, I am now possessed of a great many letters composed specifically for this project. These letters have been composed by the inspectors frequenting Scotland Yard and I am indebted to them for their assistance.

Any other accounts will be written by myself or other trustworthy eyewitnesses.

And now, I can see no point more fit to begin this tale than that which was decided upon by Watson himself. Therefore, I leave the reader in his capable hands.

* * *

_**The following is the beginning of an account of the case composed by Dr. John H. Watson, which was written 3 June 1896.**_

Those living at 221B Baker Street had enjoyed relative calm since the grave affair of the cholera epidemic. My good friend Holmes had dabbled in numerous smaller cases, though seldom did he consider those cases to be worthy of his attention.

I can remember the day on which this particular affair began quite clearly. I had been staying at Baker Street for the better part of a week while my wife was away on holiday visiting her sister in the country. Holmes had only been too glad to allow me access to my old room. Immediately after my arrival, he proceeded to regale me with his peculiar habits as though I had never left.

On the day in question, I sat in my preferred armchair by the fire reading the morning paper. It was a quiet, rainy day and the midmorning sun was obscured by the clouds so that it could hardly be seen at all, though the occasional ray attempted desperately to punctuate the cloud before it was swallowed up by the rain.

Holmes had gone out early that morning before I had risen from my bed. The reason for this early excursion was unknown to me, but I didn't particularly worry. It was not at all unusual for him to disappear without warning when he was on a case. The nature of this particular case was that of petty blackmail, a case that I would surely have thought was beneath Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps there was something else that I was unaware of.

In any case, I was interrupted from my reading as Holmes banged open the door to the sitting room and entered with a terrific flourish of one arm before collapsing against the back of an armchair.

"I say, Holmes!" I cried, getting up from my chair and going over to make certain that he was all right. "What's going on?"

Holmes cleared his throat and shook his head, blinking several times before he straightened up again and, with as much dignity as he could muster, walked around the chair and sat down within it. "I'm quite all right, Watson."

"You don't look all right, old thing," I scolded, taking in the blood that appeared to have drenched the pale grey sleeve of his overcoat. "What on earth have you been up to?"

"I suppose that it might comfort you to know that I have sealed my blackmail case." He grimaced as I gently pulled his arm from his sleeve so to examine any injury that he had managed to obtain.

"And why should that comfort me, pray tell?" I asked, inspecting a long gash in his arm. "Well, it doesn't look too deep, but I really do feel that we should stitch it."

As I bustled about, readying my equipment for the task, Holmes watched me with a cunning look in his eye. "You're not even going to ask me what happened, Watson?"

"I am all too aware of the fact that you will tell me what has occurred if and when you want me to know and certainly not before," I said with a shrug.

"Quite so, Watson."

Having gathered my supplies and sterilized my needle, I carefully took his arm and set it on the table. "Now hold still so that I can clean it."

"You will recall that a Mrs. Bridget O'Sullivan asked me to recover a certain letter that she had…misplaced for fear that it would further fall into the wrong hands?"

"I do seem to recall something of that nature."

"If only she had come to me sooner," he sighed, shifting his weight and ignoring my annoyed glance as his injured arm moved in consequence. "I might have avoided the unpleasant scene that it took to recover the letter in question."

"In other words, you failed to take something into account." Having finished cleaning the wound, I proceeded to thread my needle.

"As you say, Watson. The good lady failed to provide me with the rather important information that would have better alerted me to the identity of the thief a great deal sooner. Thus avoiding …this." He gestured to the gash. "But in the end, I did recover the letter."

"And where is it now?" I asked, carefully beginning to stitch the skin together.

"It is in the pocket of my overcoat, which you so unceremoniously threw over the back of your desk chair. Would you kindly take better care of it in the future?" The look on his face scolded me.

However, well accustomed as I am to the shortness of my companion when he was wounded, I didn't take the scolding too seriously. "Would you like me to retrieve it for you? The letter, I mean."

"There is no need," said Holmes with a waft of his good arm. "Tis irrelevant for the time being. I shall return it to Mrs. O'Sullivan at her leisure and the matter will be closed."

"Would you care explaining how you managed to slice your arm open in this manner?" I asked, carefully securing another stitch in the skin.

Holmes gave a dramatic sigh and shrugged his shoulders.

"You know, you really are acting quite childish, Holmes," I chided. "You're not yourself at all. What _has_ come over you?"

"I am preoccupied with another matter, my dear Watson. This case has proven to be more of a distraction than I had anticipated and it displeases me that I will now be at a physical disadvantage."

"That arm will heal up before long," said I. "You're certainly no stranger to physical injury."

"Certainly not, Watson," said Holmes. "You yourself know that better than most." He sighed again, looking as though he was resisting the urge to pull his injured arm from my grasp. "I knew that I would find the thief in the public house around the corner. He frequents there. The Irregulars have told me as much. What I did not expect was that someone had alerted him to my plan to recover the letter. It should have been so simple. And yet, when I entered the pub from the side entrance, I was met with a group of armed ruffians who promptly attacked me. It was most unusual. I fought them off and retrieved the letter, of course, but I was attacked from behind and the man had a rather large dagger."

"Good gracious, Holmes," I said. Having completed the sewing, I carefully tied off the end of the thread. "I thought you said that this was a simple case of blackmail."

"And so it should have been," said Holmes. "There was more to the case than met the eye. If all had gone to plan, those ruffians should never have been present."

"Did you catch the thief?"

"Why, naturally, Watson. He was taken into custody by the police and the matter is now closed. Mrs. O'Sullivan should be quite relieved."

I allowed Holmes to take his arm back after carefully bandaging the wound. "Now try not to strain yourself too much and burst the stitches."

Holmes placed his good hand on the bandage and held the injured arm close against his body. He shook his head and glanced up at the clock. "Mrs. Hudson!" he cried out, his voice booming through the house. "Mrs. Hudson!"

She appeared at the door a moment later, looking slightly cross. The expression melted into concern at the sight of the bloodied water I'd used to clean the injury and the bandage on his arm. "Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Hot water, if you please," he said smartly. "And I should require a spot of breakfast if it be convenient."

Mrs. Hudson glanced over at me and I could only offer a smile. Then she looked back at Holmes. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Once she'd gone, he leaned back in the chair and contemplated the bandage for a long moment. "I think that I shall retire for the time being. It is pointless to consider my other case for I am weary from loss of blood. I shall wash, eat, and then sleep. I shan't be needing you for anything so you may want to go out. I fear that my company will be nonexistent for the remainder of the day."

I nodded, well used to this behavior. "Then I shall see you later, Holmes. I'll be wanting another look at that arm, though, just to make sure that you aren't letting it get infected."

"Don't you trust me, Watson?" His eyes gleamed mischievously.

"In matters of your own well being?" I said thoughtfully. "No. I don't."

He chuckled to himself. "Very well. I shall submit myself to your care until you say otherwise."

"Thank you, Holmes."


	2. The Landlady's Woe

I can't imagine how Watson was able to summon enough patience to cope with my moaning when I suffered that injury. Looking back, it wasn't even particularly serious. In reality, my moaning was due to the fact that I was mentally unstable, wishing for the case that didn't seem likely to present itself.

But I had no idea of the case that was about to present itself to me. I only wish that I had been more appreciative of said case at the time.

* * *

_**The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 6 June 1896**_

Living under the same roof as Mr. Sherlock Holmes is never easy, nor is it ever predictable. But, this morning, living under said roof proved to be one of the most trying experiences of my entire life.

Mr. Holmes and the doctor had gone out for the morning, and they had told me that they didn't know when they would return. I decided to take advantage of their absence in order to do some cleaning in their flat. So, I went upstairs in order to see what I could do in the way of damage control. Naturally, the flat was in a state of shambles, as it always is. Papers strewn about the floor, tables and chairs knocked this way and that. In other words, the usual disorder. I set about to straightening up the furniture, for I knew that Mr. Holmes would be furious if I disturbed his carefully thought out "filing system."

No sooner had I started on this task, than I heard a knock at the front door. Thinking that it was most likely a visitor calling for Mr. Holmes or the doctor, I went downstairs, pulling my apron straight as I went. I opened the door to see two large men. Now, Mr. Holmes has guests of all descriptions on a regular basis, so I thought nothing of their appearance.

"Good morning," I said evenly. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the taller of the men. He stood at least a head taller than his companion, certainly two heads taller than me. He was unshaven, and wore dirty clothes that looked as though they belonged in a charity bin. His yellowed teeth poked out from between his lips as he spoke. His accent sounded American. "If you please, marm."

"I'm afraid that Mr. Holmes isn't at home at the moment," I said, drinking in his shabby appearance.

"When do you expect him back, marm?" asked the other man. I thought that it was most peculiar that he sounded American as well. He was dressed in a more gentlemanlike manner than his companion, though his clothing was old fashioned and faded. "It is most urgent that we see him as soon as possible."

I looked him over and pushed a strand of hair away from my face. "I'm afraid that I couldn't say. Mr. Holmes keeps most irregular business hours. Would you care to wait inside?"

The two men exchanged furtive glances. Then, the shabby man spoke. "Yes, please, marm. That would be most welcome."

I stepped aside to allow them entry to the house. "I can't say how long you will have to wait, though."

"Oh, that's not a problem, good lady," said the gentleman-like man. "We'll wait for a time, and then leave if he does not return."

"As you wish," I said, lifting my skirts so as to show them upstairs.

When we reached the top of the stairs, I motioned towards the door to the flat. "Just inside there, gentlemen."

"Thank you, marm," said the shabby man. "Now, could we trouble you for just one more favor?"

"What would that be, sir?"

"Hold still for a moment."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, praying that I had heard him incorrectly.

Next thing I knew, the gentleman had grabbed me from behind, one hand wrapped in a vice around my waist and the other grasping a sweet smelling handkerchief which he clapped over my mouth to stifle my cries. "Just hold still," he said. "We don't want to hurt you." Oh, how I struggled, but a moment later, the scene began to darken and I knew no more.

Some undeterminable time later, I awoke. I was bound to a straight backed chair with thick rope that bit into my wrists and ankles. A piece of cloth was tied between my teeth so that the only sound I could make was a low moaning. The two men who had attacked me were nowhere to be seen. My head ached and tears began to stream down my cheeks, as the full seriousness of my situation dawned on me. The tears slid into my mouth, soaking the gag and making it increasingly difficult to breathe as my nose began to run.

Then, I could hear the front door opening and I tried to cry out, wondering if the sound meant that the two burglars were returning. But no. Now I could hear the voice of Mr. Holmes. And yes, that was the voice of Dr. Watson. I continued to cry, praying that they would hear me.

"It's just a simple case of blackmail, as I told you, Watson," said Mr. Holmes. By his voice, it sounded as though they were coming up the stairs. "Nothing to worry about."

"Well, Mrs. O'Sullivan was very relieved to receive the letter," said the doctor. "Though, I don't see why you waited so long to give it to her."

"It wasn't my choice to wait so long," said Mr. Holmes. "She had no other time in her schedule to receive us."

I heard Dr. Watson scoff as Mr. Holmes banged open the door to the flat. "Watson!" he cried, his eyes widening slightly at the state of the room.

The boys were at my side in an instant, untying the bonds and removing the gag. "Mrs. Hudson, are you all right?" asked the doctor, his eyes full of concern.

All I could do was try desperately to stop the sobs that were wracking my body. "Oh, doctor," I choked out. "Thank goodness you're here."

Mr. Holmes untied the last rope that bound me to the chair and I fell forward into the doctor's arms. He supported me carefully, checking all over my body for any sign of injury.

"Mrs. Hudson, what happened?" asked Mr. Holmes, taking my hand in his and looking me in the eye.

"Holmes, give her a moment. She's obviously distraught," scolded the doctor.

"But we cannot be of assistance if we do not know what happened. The culprit might well be getting away as we speak," said Mr. Holmes. "Don't you wish to catch him so that he can be brought to justice?"

"Of course I do, Holmes," said the doctor. "But she can't tell us anything now, so help me put her to bed. She'll be able to help us when she's calmed down a bit."

Mr. Holmes helped me to my feet, putting one of my arms around his strong shoulders, paying little heed to his injured arm. "Lean on me, Mrs. Hudson," he said gently. "We'll get you downstairs in no time."

Once they had put me to bed and got some tea into me, I was able to explain to them what had happened. Mr. Holmes looked more and more grave as I spoke. When I had finished, he gently put one hand on mine and told me that he would take care of everything and that I mustn't worry. Then he and the doctor left me with strict instructions to rest. I wasn't injured, the doctor told me, but I had had a nasty shock.

I can't imagine why this happened. Knowing Mr. Holmes, anything is possible. I only hope that they are able to catch the men who robbed us. I don't believe that I shall be able to sleep soundly in my bed until they have been caught.

* * *

_**The following is an entry from the private diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 6 June 1896**_

After we had put Mrs. Hudson to bed, Holmes and I hurried up to the flat to assess the damage. In all honesty, it was not nearly as bad as we had feared. According to Holmes, a few insignificant papers were missing. I was resigned to take his word for it, not being at all familiar with the inner workings of Holmes's beloved "filing system." Two volumes of the the commonplace books were missing, namely M and W. Finally, one of the mahogany straight backed chairs that usually sat at our table also appeared to have been taken.

What connected these strange items, I couldn't be certain. All we knew was that the men had not taken anything that had any monetary value, with the possible exception being the chair. But even the chair, though undeniably pleasing to the eye, wasn't really worth very much money.

Holmes, however, seemed unconcerned. He held his bandaged arm close against his chest as his keen eyes swept across the room. "Well, Watson," he said, settling himself in his favorite armchair with a shrug of his shoulders. "We were surprisingly fortunate in this burglary attempt."

"That may be so," I said, seating myself. "But I find it suspicious that they didn't seem to gain anything from this so called attempt. And now they could be charged with holding Mrs. Hudson against her will if they are caught."

"Oh, but they don't matter in the grand scheme of things," said Holmes with a waft of his good arm.

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, though I had a sneaking suspicion as to his meaning.

Holmes shook his head. "It matters not for the time being. What does matter is that Mrs. Hudson is safe and that Scotland Yard does not find out what has occurred."

"Why don't you want the Yard to find out? Surely they could be of some help in catching the thief." I regretted the words as soon as they had left my mouth.

"You know my methods," he said, a touch of annoyance coming over his features. "Answer that question yourself."

I sighed. "Holmes, how about letting me take a look at the injury and then a dose of pain medication."

"I don't need pain medication," said Holmes, attempting to cross his arms, but abandoning the effort when the pain apparently became too great. "I need a case."

My hands gently grasped the injured arm and began unwinding the bandage. "I should think that you were just handed one, Holmes."

"Whatever do you mean, Watson?" he asked, still looking displeased as I worked.

"Well, someone just broke into your flat, tied up your faithful landlady, and stole a number of your personal items." I set the old bandage aside. The white linen was stained with old blood, which had smeared over the skin around the injury. "Will you permit me to clean it?"

Holmes sighed and nodded reluctantly.

Once I had done so with water from the freshly boiled kettle in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, I inspected the wound again. "No sign of inflammation," I said with a satisfied nod. "I think that we'll be ready to remove the stitches soon."

"I am so relieved," he said dryly.

"Will you accept the pain medication?"

He gave a sigh. "If it would please you, Watson."

"It does," I said with a shake of my head. I reached into my bag and pulled out a vial. Wielding my syringe, I drew up some of the liquid and carefully injected it into his arm. "There now."

"I must rest, Watson," he said with a sigh, already sounding drowsy. "Wake me if anything develops."

"Of course, Holmes."

Holmes retreated to his bedroom, leaving me alone by the fireplace. I packed my medical bag, setting it aside. Then, I sat down again, pulling out the day's newspaper, which I had been unable to read at breakfast. My eyes traveled down the page, seeking anything that grabbed my attention.

"Hello," I said softly, raising my eyebrows at one headline in particular as I recalled Mrs. Hudson's description of her attackers:

**American Bandits Terrorize London**


	3. Tarts for All

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 9 June 1896**_

I have to admit that the experience I endured has been preying on my nerves ever since that terrible day. Against my better judgment, it's made me a bit skittish and nervous. The good doctor and Mr. Holmes have assured me that I am no longer in any danger as long as I am careful when deciding whether or not to let visitors into the flat when they are not home. However, I am still careful to keep the house locked tight, especially after dark. I'd rather not leave anything to chance during times like this.

Mr. Holmes has been in touch with the inspectors at Scotland Yard, informing them of everything that occurred. He promises me that they will sort everything out. Of course, this does little to soothe my worries. The mere fact that Mr. Holmes doesn't seem to be taking an interest in this affair is most troubling. I can only imagine that he has some kind of reasoning behind it.

I have decided to try a new recipe for apricot tarts. They are a favorite of the doctor, and one that I don't make very often, for pastry remains an art form that I have not yet mastered. However, Mrs. Wilson, my grocer's wife, told me that this particular recipe is foolproof. I shall have to wait and see! However, I must remember to stop by the store and purchase granulated sugar and cracked pepper. I seem to have let my supply run low. I am also in need of baking flour and soda.

_**Entry dated 10 June 1896**_

Had just enough sugar to finish the tarts, though not quite enough baking flour. Stopped by Wilson's Grocery and purchased made all of the necessary purchases. I do so hate it when I run low.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 10 June 1896**_

_[Neatly folded between the pages of the diary, I found several sheet of paper that contained an early draft of Watson's writing endeavor at this time. The pages are smudged from his haste in writing so that they are almost illegible. This particular project was very important to him, and had an overbearing influence on the case. _

_S.H.]_

I have been hard at work at a revision of a relatively new case that had been requested by my editors. This afternoon, I was putting a few last touches on the draft before sending it to my publisher for approval. Needless to say, Holmes was not impressed with the prospect of a single case receiving so much publicity.

"If you simply wrote the logical facts instead of trying to tell a story, Watson, you would not have to write so quickly that you ruin an entire page," said the wry voice from the other side of the room as I wrote. "Yet another example of why this is so important."

"People don't want to read just logical facts, Holmes," said I, turning in my chair so that I could see the top of his head over the newspaper that he was holding. "They like a good story."

"Then they can read other stories," shrugged Holmes. His pale face glanced up from over the paper. "I do not wish to be portrayed as a literary hero."

"It's the money from the sales of these stories that helps to keep us living in this flat," I felt obliged to point out.

"Ah, but that is certainly true."

"If you wish, I could spend more time at the surgery so that I would be able to make more money for the rent."

Holmes rolled his eyes with an expression of surrender and shook his head. "You put me in the most awkward positions, Watson."

I chuckled, replacing the cap on his bottle of ink and casting my gaze over the new title: The Illustrious Client. My publisher had decided that my previous title was far too presumptuous.

"Didn't you publish this in the past?" asked Holmes, for he had been aware that I was revising this case.

"Of course," I said, gathering up the many loose pages and putting them together in a single stack.

"Then I must confess that I find myself puzzled as to why you are calling it a new case," said Holmes. His newspaper was cast aside as he stretched luxuriously. "It is, after all, a singularly unimportant case."

"My publishers have asked me to rewrite part of it so that they may publish it in a new paper once more."

"You're printing it again?" mused Holmes. "That is singular."

I chose to ignore him. I got up from his chair and stretched muscles that ached from several hours of sitting hunched over the page. As I did so, he happened to glance out of the window and saw that Lestrade was standing outside on the street. "I daresay that we are about to receive another case, Holmes," I remarked.

"We will see," scoffed Holmes. "London is singularly dull when it comes to crime as of late. I can't just accept any case."

"Well I do wish that you would accept this case," said I, moving over to the table to pour myself a cup of tea from the pot that Mrs. Hudson had just brought in a few minutes before. "You are intolerable to live with when you are bored."

"A case that does not stimulate my brain will make me worse than bored," countered Holmes. "But I would not expect you to comprehend such a concept. It is not your fault that your brain is unable to process the same amount of material as my own."

Any retort that I might have been able to offer was cut short by a knock at the front door.

"I do suppose that we should feel honored that Inspector Lestrade has seen fit to grace us with his presence," said Holmes after listening for the pattern of the knocking.

"Do give him a chance, Holmes," I implored him. "It might be a great deal more interesting than you believe."

"I daresay," said Holmes, though he did not look convinced by my words.

There was a knock on the door to our flat, and Holmes called for Mrs. Hudson to enter the room. She did so, bringing the inspector right inside along with her. "Inspector Lestrade to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, springing up from his chair and gesturing at the sofa that stood across from his preferred chair. "Do sit down, Inspector. Can I interest you in some tea?"

Lestrade sat in the appointed spot and nodded congenially. "Yes, I think that would be just lovely."

Holmes seized the teapot from where I had left it a few moments before. "Some fresh tea, perhaps, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, holding it out to her so that it tipped precariously in his fingers.

Mrs. Hudson rescued the teapot with one swift movement. Her eyes scolded Holmes so irately that I was forced to contain a chuckle. "Do be careful, Mr. Holmes," she scolded. "I'll not have you spoiling yet another of my teapots."

"Do forgive me, Mrs. Hudson," he said apologetically.

She shook her head, still looking annoyed at him, before she left the room. As the door closed behind her with a click, Holmes turned his attention back to our visitor.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Lestrade?" he asked, seating himself in his preferred chair. "You have not been around to Baker Street in quite some time. I assume that some diabolical scheme has been discovered."

I sat down in the chair next to Lestrade and picked up my pipe from the table. I nodded my greeting as I struck a match and lit the pipe. "Afternoon, Lestrade."

"Good afternoon, Doctor," he said in a voice that was falsely cheerful. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." He paused, seeming to take a moment to collect his thoughts together. "You are correct in assuming that I need your assistance in clearing up a certain matter."

"Dangerous?" asked Holmes. There was no missing the glint that came into his eyes as he spoke.

"Potentially," allowed Lestrade. "Would you be willing to investigate the matter?"

Holmes chuckled at the words. "Now, now, Lestrade," he said. "Surely you know me well enough by now to realize that I will not commit to any case without first hearing the facts."

"Yes, I do know that," said Lestrade dryly. "But I do rather think that you shall be most interested by this case."

"Then, pray continue," said Holmes, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers together.

"A young man was found dead on the banks of the Thames this morning," said Lestrade.

"Where on the Thames?" asked Holmes, a note of impatience coming into his voice.

"On the eastern end of the Plaistow Marshes, in between the Victoria and Royal Albert docks," said Lestrade. He sounded a bit disgruntled at the interruption, though I would have thought that he would be used to that sort of thing by now. "In the abandoned shipyard."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, apparently intrigued by this piece of information. He nodded for Lestrade to continue his story.

"Victim was probably in his late twenties, and rather wealthy, going by the state of his clothes. Hasn't been identified, but that should only be a matter of time."

"How did he die?" I asked, slowly inhaling the smoke from my pipe.

"At first glance, it seems that he drowned," said Lestrade.

"What do you mean 'at first glance'?" I took another draw on my pipe, trying to get a visual of the entire situation.

"I mean, that's what it looked like," said Lestrade. "But when we examined the body further, we discovered something a bit more interesting. It appears that whoever was trying to do him in attempted first to strangle him with his hands, going by the bruises on his neck. But there was too much water in his lungs for the body to have been chucked into the Thames after death."

"So, presumably, the murderer tried to strangle him but it wasn't working for whatever reason?" I said slowly. "So he threw the body into the Thames to let the river finish him off?"

"It seems ridiculous," admitted Lestrade. "But that's what it looks like."

"Did the handprints on his neck look like they belonged to a man?" I asked.

"Yes, they certainly did," said Lestrade grimly. "What I can't understand is why they would throw him into the river before he was dead. It just doesn't make any bloody sense." He turned so that he was now facing Holmes. "That's why I decided to bring this one to your attention, Mr. Holmes. I thought that you would be able to come up with something."

"Is there anything else that you can tell me?" asked Holmes. His eyes opened and he looked the inspector over several times, apparently deep in thought. "Anything about the victim or the crime scene?"

"Well, like I said, the victim hasn't been identified, but we believe that he was very wealthy. He didn't have any form of identification on him. I assume that was removed by the man who killed him."

"What sort of clothes was he wearing?" asked Holmes.

"Very fine," said Lestrade. "The style was quite old, but it had been maintained most impressively, though the finer details were lost in the river."

"Then he was wearing clothes," said Holmes quietly, more to himself than to either of us. "That's most interesting."

"How's that?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes appeared to snap out of whatever mental process he had been absorbed in and he shrugged. "Never mind," he said. "Just thinking aloud. Do continue."

"I have a man coming in to potentially identify the body tomorrow afternoon," said Lestrade. "I'd like it if you were there for the process. You and the doctor."

"Well, I don't see why not," said Holmes, putting on a rather cheerful tone of voice. "This could be of great interest."

"Then you'll come?" Lestrade sounded undeniably relieved.

"If Dr. Watson raises no objections?"

I shook my head, offering Lestrade a smile. "I should be delighted."

"Then it is settled," said Holmes, getting up from his seat and opening the door of the flat to admit Mrs. Hudson even before she had knocked. "You will stay for some tea, of course, and we shall not talk about this case until the identification of the body tomorrow."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade.

Holmes set the tea tray down on the table, and picked up the teapot, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's glance. "You must be careful, Mr. Holmes," she said, obviously not trusting him to do so. "Or I shall be forced to not allow you to use my china without supervision."

I made my way over to the tea tray, also not trusting Holmes to pour for me. I caught sight of a particular treat laid out on a plate and a smile came over my features. "Why, Mrs. Hudson!" I cried out. "You made apricot tarts!"

She returned the smile, looking very pleased at my reaction. "I thought that you would enjoy them, Doctor."

"I do indeed," said I, sweeping her up in a hug. "You're too good to us, my dear Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

**Author's Note: The observant reader will probably have noticed that I'm mixing up the canon order of cases, as The Final Problem was set in 1891, and Ghost Map took place in 1895 with Moriarty as a character and Illustrious Client was not set till many years after this. Just a note to say that this is indeed deliberate!**


	4. Fighting Fit

**Author's Note: Yes, I'm still alive and writing! I'd lost track of where I wanted to go with this story, but I do hope for more regular updates in the near future. Thanks for sticking with me!**

* * *

_After a great deal of research, I have reached the conclusion that the following is the most exact account of the incident that took place on the banks of the Thames. The detailed account of the affair penned by Dr. Watson no longer exists; therefore I must put forth this interpretation by Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard. Any misconceptions will be dealt with accordingly. _

_I have taken the liberty of removing several superfluous sections from this report, as they had no bearing on the case. I trust that the reader will appreciate that they need not suffer through the grievances of a minor inspector of Scotland Yard._

_S.H._

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector S. Hopkins. Entry dated 11 June 1896**_

I found myself perplexed as to why Lestrade chose to call upon Sherlock Holmes for this particular case. While it is certainly a sorry affair, it seems as though it is a rather modest case in nature. Unquestionably, it is not too difficult a case for the likes of two inspectors of Scotland Yard. However, Lestrade was most insistent that we recruit the mind of Mr. Holmes, and I was forced to agree, as it was I who called Lestrade into my case in the first place.

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson arrived at the morgue this morning with the intention of witnessing the identification. The good doctor appeared most interested in the proceedings, much to the apparent annoyance of his companion. Lestrade had assured me that Mr. Holmes was willing to take on the case, but I found myself doubting this as I observed his conduct at the mortuary. He seemed very uninterested, and appeared to be annoyed when the doctor spoke quietly to him. I can only imagine what went through their heads; I cast a look toward Lestrade, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

We found ourselves waiting for a long while before the man who was to identify the body arrived. Dr. Watson spent the time examining the body with the permission of myself and Lestrade. Mr. Holmes appeared to glance over at the body every so often with an expression of extreme indifference.

Finally, there was a knock at the door and a constable entered, bearing an elderly gentleman in his wake. He offered me a nod before exiting the room, closing the door firmly behind him. The old gentleman stared at the body, now covered in a white sheet so that no part of him was visible. The man was short and stooped, walking with a cane that was covered in filth. His clothing suggested that he was a beggar, a fact that confused me.

"Do come in, Mr. Toulson," said Lestrade, being the only one to offer speech as the rest of us only stared at the man's peculiar appearance. "It was very good of you to come on such short notice."

Mr. Toulson nodded, making his way slowly but deliberately across the room toward the body on the table. "It is no matter," he said with a wave of his hand. I was struck by how deep his voice sounded; the fact that the speech was punctured by many cracks made it stand out as quite peculiar. "I am here to do my duty."

Lestrade cleared his throat and gestured toward the body. "If you wouldn't mind, sir," he said, his fingers taking hold of the sheet covering the body. The man nodded and Lestrade pulled the sheet away from the face so that it was visible to everyone.

The face was mottled and blue, the lines slurred and pained. Such a curious mixture of strangulation and drowning. It was not something that I came across very often in my career as an inspector. I found myself staring at it with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, despite the fact that I had already viewed the body when it had been found.

Mr. Toulson stared at the face for a long moment before he spoke. "Yes," he said softly, the word sounding faintly reminiscent of something like the voice of a cracked toad. "That's him."

"Are you certain, sir?" I asked, not wanting to be outdone on my own case. "There is no doubt in your mind?"

"None at all," said the man, not even bothering to look up at me. "That is most certainly my missing ward."

Lestrade allowed the sheet to fall back onto the face of the dead man. He looked from face to face, his expression grim. "Thank you for your time, sir," he said. "If we could get a statement, we will need to ask you a few questions about your ward."

"Certainly, sir."

* * *

_The inspector's description of the face of the dead man was extremely accurate. Ironically, it was the face of Mr. Toulson that he failed to notice, and this face was more significant than that of a dead man. _

_Mr. Toulson stared upon the body for a long time before making the identification, that much Hopkins perceived. But the facial expression was most curious. It suggested that Mr. Toulson was more interested than appalled; this was not a typical identification. _

_Another fact that Hopkins failed to notice was the fact that Dr. Watson appeared to be suffering from a strong headache throughout the identification process. But then, he would not witness the significance of this fact, and I doubt that the incident was ever related to him._

_S.H._

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 11 June 1896.**_

We have learned from Mr. Toulson that the dead man is a Mr. Clay Anderson, twenty-two years of age and the dependent of the identifier. He had been reported missing by Mrs. Toulson about two days before the body had been discovered. There had been no trace of him and no apparent reason why anyone should want him dead.

And yet, he was found brutally murdered, strangled and drowned. What a case for the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

I knew that Hopkins was very much against my consulting the detective; he had experienced a great deal of irritation by requesting the help my mind. He may try to employ the methods of a Scotland Yard inspector, but often has a great deal of difficulty doing so. This is not the first time that I have been invited to help in one of his cases, nor is it the first time that Sherlock Holmes has stepped in.

In any case, Sherlock Holmes remained quite blasé toward the case until he read the statement obtained by the constable. We had returned to my office after the identification in order to better examine the statement. Dr. Watson had appeared interested in the case from the start, but I have to admit that I experienced a feeling of relief when the consulting detective looked as though he had taken notice. It was not difficult to see that his curiosity had finally been aroused.

"What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, gesturing toward the piece of paper that now sat on my desk.

He sat in silence, his eyes traveling up and down the page without reading the words contained within. "I find it to be of most singular interest," he mused, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "Don't you?"

"Well, it does seem most unusual," I allowed, sitting back in my chair.

"I do wonder if you have found yourself able to observe a particularly interesting aspect of this case."

"How do you mean?" I asked with a sigh, waiting for the triumphant revelation. I often found it quite tiresome to work with this man; there were times when his ability to solve perplexing cases remained the only thing that stopped me from smacking him upside the face with a blotter.

"Mr. and Mrs. Toulson are not wealthy people. That much was obvious from the start," said Holmes. "Yet, they have a young man from a very wealthy family as their dependent. I would be most interested to learn more about the circumstances that led to this arrangement."

"Perhaps an estrangement from his family?" suggested Dr. Watson, reaching a hand up to hold the left side of his head in a seemingly casual gesture. I thought that I detected a slight wince on his part.

Holmes shook his head, his eyes still trained on the statement lying on my desk. "No, I do not believe that is the case."

"Why not?" I asked, begrudgingly confused. "That was the case with the lad who visited you during the cholera case. Why should this be any different?"

"Because Mr. Toulson did not strike me as a man who would be very sympathetic to that kind of plot. Whether or not his wife is remains to be seen. But I highly doubt that his wife would be able to convince him to take on such a ward."

I frowned, considering the fact. "Perhaps. But where does that leave us?"

He did not answer immediately, but stared at me as though astonished that I did not have the faintest idea what he was talking about. His gaze shifted to his friend, who was now grasping at his head with his eyes closed. I saw concern flicker in the eyes of the detective. "I daresay that we will find out in time," he said with a shrug. He was on his feet, looking at Dr. Watson, who appeared to be trying to cover up for whatever distress he was experiencing.

"Dr. Watson?" I asked, standing to get a better look at him. "Are you feeling well?"

His eyes opened and he appeared to be suddenly recovered. "Quite well, thank you, Lestrade," he said, pulling his jacket straight and offering me a smile. "I just had a slight headache. It appears to have gone now."

He slowly got to his feet, glancing over at Holmes, who was staring doubtfully at him. He smiled again as he reached a standing position, as though trying to reassure us of his condition. His mouth opened to speak, but any words were cut off as his eyes closed and he collapsed onto the floor in front of me.

I gave a cry of shock as I saw him fall, hurrying around my desk to his side. Holmes reached the doctor before I was able to, quickly gathering his friend in his arms and touching a hand to his throat.

"Is he all right, Holmes?" I asked with a feeling of shock. "Shall I call for an ambulance?"

Before he could answer, it appeared that Watson was coming around. His eyes opened and he touched a hand to where I perceived he had struck his head when he had fallen. He grimaced, taking his hand away; I could see that it was stained red with blood, though not as much as I might have anticipated. He looked at me with an expression of confusion as though unable to remember what had just occurred. Then, his eyes cleared and he nodded softly.

"What happened, Doctor?" I asked, breathing the same sigh of relief that left the lungs of Sherlock Holmes. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, the confusion leaving his face. "Yes, yes," he murmured, struggling into a sitting position, his hands pushing against Holmes for support. "I'm all right. Just a dizzy spell."

Holmes didn't look convinced. "Watson, are you quite sure? You gave us quite a scare."

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding much stronger. "Could I have a glass of water?"

I moved over to pour a glass from the pitcher that always rested on my desk. I handed him the glass, watching him carefully to make sure that he could get it to his lips. Satisfied that he seemed well enough, I moved back to give him a moment to regain his composure. Holmes helped him to his feet after he had finished, gently pushing him into his chair.

"I'm quite well now," said the doctor, apparently embarrassed by what had transpired. "A bit of water and I'm right as rain."

Holmes stared at him for a moment, his arms folded and his gaze searching. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but the doctor cut him off. "Don't fret, Holmes. I've just been tired as of late, and I suppose that the strain was too much for me."

I have to admit that I was not convinced by this explanation, and I could see that Holmes didn't believe him either. But, I decided that it would be best to let the matter stand for now. Whatever was wrong, the doctor did not appear willing to talk about it at the moment. "I suggest that you take him back to Baker Street, Holmes," I said with a nod to the pale man in the chair. "A good meal and some sleep will do him good."

"Yes, I'm sure," said Holmes. "Watson, do you think that you will be alright to stand and walk, or would you like my assistance?"

Dr. Watson did not appear quite sure, so he carefully stood under his own power, testing his ability to walk. He nodded. "I think that I will be alright, Holmes," he said, a bit shakily. "But I may require your assistance if it proves too much for me."

Holmes nodded. "Of course, my dear fellow." He turned to face me. "I will take the case. Good day to you, Inspector."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

_Watson's sudden illness did seem inconsequential at the time. A result of overworking, for I knew that he had been extremely busy at his surgery as of late. Even then, however, I knew that something was amiss. _

_Looking back, I cannot believe that I missed the warning signs for what was to come. _


	5. Live Coals

_**A rough copy of the case as penned by Dr. John H. Watson and found in his personal diary. Dated 14 June 1896**_

_[I was obliged to recopy many of the passages that are found in this account. The draft was jotted down while the good doctor was ill in his bed and was written with a tremendously unstable and shaking hand, making the words difficult to read. I have also decided that it was best not to remove the errors that were created in the writing of this passage so as to better show the reader just how deteriorated the mind of the doctor was at this point._

_S.H.]_

Upon returning to Baker Street, I found Holmes to be in an unusually irate mood. The source of this mood was undetermined, but his incessant pacing and quiet growls only served to make my throbbing headache grow steadily worse.

I knew that Holmes was cross with me for not telling him of my debility illness before my untimely collapse in the office of Inspector Lestrade. Prior to my collapse, I had been suffering from intense nausea and an extremely painful headache for the better part of a day or so. Initially, I had dismissed the symptoms as a physical evidence of the fact that I was rundown and exhausted from many hours at the surgery.

Once we had returned to Baker Street, I felt obliged to lie down on my bed until it was time for supper. Holmes did not offer any comment, but left me to it. I must admit that I found his lack of concern to be a bit strange after the way that he had behaved in Lestrade's office. In any case, I had hoped that his withdrawal would allow me several hours of uninterrupted sleep, which I found myself badly in need of.

Mrs. Hudson brought me another of her wonderful tarts and a cup of tea in an effort to make me more comfortable. Her concern was quite touching, and I managed to eat the entire tart, despite the complaints of my system. Although it was not without a considerable amount of coaxing on the part of my landlady. I appreciated her determination, although I was unable to tell her, for I began to feel so unwell ill that I knew I must sleep.

However, although my respite was uninterrupted by my friend, I found myself plagued by hostile dreams. Several times I awoke drenched in sweat and fighting off a bout of nausea before coaxing myself asleep once more. I knew that the illness was more serious tha…

[_At this point, the narrative trails off, for Watson evidentially was unable to continue. As he has said, I had felt that it was best to leave him to it, for I was uncertain what the best course to take would be in this circumstance. I regret my decision._

_While the good doctor was fighting his illness, I absorbed myself in the case at hand; I found it the most effective way to take my mind off of my worry. As we would soon discover, that mistake would be our undoing._

_S.H_]

* * *

_**From the personal records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Dated 15 June 1896.**_

I have received word from Baker Street regarding the condition of Dr. Watson. In the two days since his untimely collapse in my office, the health of the doctor has declined severely. Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to inform me that he was taken to hospital early this morning, only a few hours ago. Neither the cause nor nature of the disease is known. His condition was so unstable that Holmes has accompanied him to hospital and will remain there with him as long as is necessary. Mrs. Hudson has promised to keep me informed.

Apparently, the doctor awoke with severe abdominal pain and having a violent fit; a crash as he knocked over his bedside lamp was what alerted Holmes to the situation. One thing led to another, and he was rushed to hospital, leaving Mrs. Hudson frantic in his wake.

I must admit that I am nervous uneasy at this sudden, violent illness; I am not convinced that it is pure chance. However, until the hospital staff can get a better idea of the situation, there is nothing that can be done. We must wait. And I am certain that I speak for us all when I say that the report cannot come soon enough to suit anyone.

I plan to render a visit to Baker Street as soon as possible. I am worried about Mrs. Hudson; I know that she is very distraught at this sudden change in the doctor's health, particularly so soon after the recent cholera epidemic.

Annie has offered to prepare a meal for Mrs. Hudson if I will stop at home to retrieve it before visiting Baker Street; she is firm about the fact that Mrs. Hudson will not want to cook for herself, particularly with both of her lodgers at hospital. I know that she will appreciate the gesture, and I worry that she will not eat without a bit of coaxing.

I was forced to leave Hopkins alone in his office when I received the call; we had been discussing the case at great length. I know that he was extremely annoyed at me, but it couldn't be helped. I had to leave the room quickly, and that was that. No doubt I'll be made to listen to his complaints in the morning.

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie M. Lestrade. Entry dated 15 Jun 1896.**_

I've felt so helpless since Geoff told me what had happened at Baker Street. All I can think about was that dear Mrs. Hudson alone in the house while the men were off at hospital. She must be going mad with worry, and I can't blame her.

I wanted to go and see her myself, but the children are ill, and I daren't leave them alone. Geoff can take time away from the Yard, so I decided to send him along with a meal for Mrs. Hudson while I stayed with the little ones. Mrs. Hudson is such a kind and motherly woman, and I so want to help her. This is one way that I can, and I hope that I can go along to see her as soon as I can. The children should be much better in the next few days and I can send them along to school.

There's not a day goes by that I don't thank my lucky stars for the health of my family, and this sudden illness of the doctor has only made that feeling stronger. At least my children are only ill with a minor head cold. They will be all right. I shudder to think what might have happened if they'd become ill during that horrible epidemic. I know that it is all over and done with, but I can't help but recall what happened. Geoff frightened me when he said that the real killer was still greatly at large. There's nothing that I can do about it. I am so afraid that it will happen again. I'm afraid that I will not be able to protect my family. I feel so silly thinking like this, but I cannot help it. The city might have forgotten the terror, but I haven't.

Every day I wonder if Geoff will be able to come home and tell me that the entire business has been cleared up. I know that it's unlikely, but it doesn't stop me from hoping. I know that Geoff is as concerned as I am, though he doesn't show it. I can see it in the way that he looks at me, and at our children. And it breaks my heart.

I must fly now, for Geoff has come for Mrs. Hudson's basket of food. I must put these feelings away, and smile for him. He has the more difficult job at this moment in time. I can put on a strong smile for him. It is what he needs. With any luck, he'll have some information about the doctor when he returns this evening.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector S. Hopkins. Entry dated 15 June 1896**_

It would appear that Inspector Lestrade is out of the office for the rest of the day at the very least. He received a phone call that seemed to shock him into running off, leaving me with the case files just as we seemed to be getting somewhere with this murder business. I will have to rely on my own wits now, since it appears that the great Sherlock Holmes has vanished as well. I have no idea what is going on, but I find it most inconvenient.

Lestrade and I had managed to trace Mr. Clay Anderson's address before his leave-taking. It was not the same address given to us by Mr. Toulson, but we feel confident that it is accurate and might even be able to help us sort something out. I plan to visit it myself tomorrow, alone if Lestrade hasn't returned to work.

After the identification, Lestrade was the first person to interview old Toulson. He gave me the basic facts before I went in there. I think that he had hoped that it would be enough information to keep me from interviewing the man. But Lestrade isn't always the best at this kind of interrogation. There were so many obvious things that the man wasn't telling Lestrade, and I'll bet just about anything that he had no idea. I believe that he is too trusting.

I went into the interrogation room to speak with Toulson after Lestrade left with Mr. Holmes and the doctor. He seemed surprisingly content and he didn't seem to be particularly worried or upset about the fact that he'd just identified the body of his ward. I didn't like that attitude.

So, I questioned him. He looked like he was trying not to laugh at me. Naturally, I knew that he was hiding something, so I pushed on. But he wasn't telling me anything that he hadn't told Lestrade. I asked him dozens of questions, but he wouldn't confess any other knowledge. It was very maddening. Finally, I realized that there was nothing to do but to let him go. Of course, I told him that we would be in contact with him again, should he decide to tell us what he's keeping from us. He just gave a little smile, and he nodded. He said that he would be willing to help us out in any way that he could. A bloody lie. If he meant it, he'd have already told me.

Why do I get the feeling that he's told Lestrade more than Lestrade actually told me? This is _my_ case.

Mr. Holmes and Lestrade seem to be pretty bent on the fact that the cause of death is damn more significant than it should be. Lestrade kept bringing it up before he left, and I was getting quite annoyed. It seems to me that the actual way that he died is insignificant. The killer tried to do him in one way and it didn't work, so he had to try something else. It happened in a mad fit. And you'd think that would be the end of it. Apparently not. I wish that they'd just let up. I'll prove to them that it didn't happen the way that they think.

Assuming that Lestrade will be returning tomorrow, I'm making arrangements for my trip to the dead man's address. I've given up talking to the old man witness. Any important information has been given. And he's bloody annoying to talk to. There's nothing more to be found there. He didn't even know where his ward lived. No, there's nothing else. Maybe this address will help us actually get somewhere if we can find any clues and talk to the neighbors. It'll be much better than just trying to stay around here and twiddling my thumbs while Lestrade debates the importance of the cause of death. Ridiculous.

* * *

_**The following is a rough account of the hospitalization of Dr. John H. Watson, as penned by one of the doctors. It was intended to be a personal account, but I was fortunate enough to obtain it, for it gives an accurate account of treatment.**_

A man was rushed into one of my rooms this evening. He appeared to be strongly built, of a stature either average or slightly above average, with a thick, strong neck and a small moustache*. My nurses informed me that he was suffering from an unknown ailment; therefore I took it upon myself to diagnose his illness.

When I saw the man, I could see that his condition was serious. He appeared to be having some kind of seizure-like fit, his form alternating between violent flails and clamping up with arms wrapped around his midsection, suggesting abdominal pain. Cramps, perhaps. So much saliva could be seen around his mouth that he appeared to be foaming rabidly. I suspected that he had lost control over muscles that allowed him to contain the saliva.

I moved over to his side, nodding to the nurses to hold him back so that I could administer emergency treatment. They tried to restrain him, but he proved to be too strong for them, and they were thrown back. It was then that I noticed the man who had accompanied him.

"What do you need?" he asked, his voice hoarse. I could see that he was very upset at the circumstances. Still, he appeared to be stronger than my nurses, and I needed that strength more than I needed skill if the seizures did continue.

"I need to establish an airway. He can't breathe. I need you to hold him down without harming him while I do this."

He nodded, coming forward and gripping the arms of the sick man. The seizures appeared to be lessening; he did not resist the other man, but I worried that they would start up again after I administered treatment. Once the man was as still as we could make him, I proceeded to free his airway, making certain that he was able to breathe. I checked for his pulse, and was relieved to discover that it was relatively normal; it was fast, certainly, but that was to be expected after the seizures. It was already beginning to slow to a normal rate.

"Has he vomited since the fit began?" I asked the other man, nodding for him that it was safe to let go of the man's wrists.

"Yes, he has." The answer was short and terse, as his eyes swept up and down the wracked form of the man on the table.

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was a good sign. I was beginning to suspect that this was a case of concentrated nicotine poisoning. Had he not vomited, we would have had to attempt a treatment involving live coals, and I would rather not try it if I didn't have to.

The man on the table was still, and his breathing had returned to normal, although he was unconscious. "There is nothing more to do," I said, grateful that my own breath was coming a bit easier. "We will make certain that his heart rate remains strong, and his body will break down the rest of the poison. He should be out of the woods at this point."

The man appeared to exhale a breath that he had been holding for quite some time. He looked straight at me and nodded. "What poison?" he asked, his tone more curious than concerned.

"This was a classic case of nicotine poisoning. If nicotine is ingested in a concentrated form, it will bring on these symptoms. Your friend was extremely lucky. He appears to be quite resilient. Not many would be able to recover as quickly as he did."

I paused to look at the man, who appeared to stop listening to me. I smiled softly as he sat down next to his friend.

"I will inform your staff of any changes," he said.

"I don't expect any changes at this point," I replied. "If there is anything else that you require, just let us know."

He nodded absently. "I shall."

* * *

*** Taken from **_**The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton**_

**Note: I honestly couldn't find any information that suggested that doctors would not be aware of nicotine poisoning and treatment for it at this time, so I made an assumption that they would. At this point, this was what needed to happen, so I apologize for any historical inaccuracy. You didn't really want me to kill off the doctor, did you? :D**


	6. Unwelcome Residence

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 17 June 1896.**_

I felt a certain amount of vexation when I became aware of the fact that rain was streaming down the windows of the carriage. The sight and sound of the pattering drops is generally enough to push the pain from a dull ache to a bursting throbbing. I have always experienced pain when the weather changed, but the incident with the nicotine poisoning appears to have crippled the joint quite badly. Of course, that might be simply because I still feel so weak and heady.

As an army doctor, I've treated many cases of nicotine poisoning in the past, and I am well aware of the consequences of the aftermath. The main difference in my case being that most cases of this kind occur when a patient is a heavy smoker. I know that I will still be weak for quite some time; that feeling is one thing but the persistent pain of an old war wound is another.

Somehow, I feel as though Holmes knows that the poisoning is not an accident. I myself do not know how the poison entered my system, for I had not smoked before the incident occurred. In any case, I am almost certain that it has to do with the note that Holmes received this morning:

"_Je savais que tu reviendrais. Regardez-les."_

My French is quite poor, but I do know enough to recognize the fact that he is being told to watch more than one person. I would very nearly bet all of my savings that I am one of those people. I suppose that Mrs. Hudson is at least one other, although I am not certain on that point. I cannot think who else should be watched, if not Mary or perhaps even Lestrade.

Holmes has not spoken about his last encounter with Colonel Moran. To be specific, I refer to the meeting that left him on the floor of Camden House with enough cocaine in his system to sink the Spanish armada. He had told me that he knew that Moran would return with a vengeance. Undoubtedly Professor Moriarty would be at his side when the time came. It's been months since then. I do not know how Moran managed to poison me, but I do not doubt that he was one person who was behind the attack. Perhaps even the men who assaulted Mrs. Hudson and robbed the house… Well, if Moriarty sought to gain the attention of Sherlock Holmes, he has certainly succeeded.

Mary wanted to return to London as soon as she had received word from Mrs. Hudson of my debilitating illness. Holmes had agreed wholeheartedly and had even arranged for her transportation, but, alas, this was not to be. An accident on the line has stalled all trains in her area, and the distance is great that she would not be able to return to London for at least a week. I spoke to her over the telephone this morning, and I assured her that I was feeling much more like myself. She has reluctantly agreed to stay where she is, although the lack of transportation in the area isn't particularly giving her a choice in the matter.

At the moment, we are traveling by carriage to an address provided to us by Lestrade. Apparently, Mr. Toulson gave him the address of the dead man's closest living relatives. I had the impression that Lestrade did not want us to make this journey, but he doesn't seem particularly inclined to stop us. At any rate, Holmes wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to speak with these suspects. He seems keen to put the events of my hospitalization behind us. I must confess that I am ready to do the same.

Holmes asked me if I felt ready to travel, for he knew that I am still quite ill at this point. I assured him that I was indeed ready, and that I was quite looking forward to a chance to learn more about this case. I feel as though there have been too many distractions leading up to this point, what with the attack on Baker Street and my unfortunate incident. If Moran is trying to distract us, it must be a sign that we are making some significant progress on this case, even if we aren't aware of it. Well, I say 'we' but I know that Holmes knows a great deal more than he's telling me. Mind you, there's nothing unusual about that. I'm quite used to being kept in the dark. However, I do feel a bit subdued about this case. There is a weariness that clouds my vision and my mind. I feel as though I've been put out of a race, as though this is not my time.

Holmes has just pulled a second letter out of his pocket of which I knew nothing. Evidently, this is not just an interrogational call on this family. We have also been asked to assist in the solving of a murder that took place yesterday evening. The letter came in this morning's post.

The fact that Holmes ultimately decided to visit the house did surprise me. There is very little information in the letter; it is not so much as signed. I doubt that Holmes would have agreed to go to such a grand manor house as the one that is currently approaching outside the window on such slight information. Naturally, there is something that I do not know about.

I must break off now, for we have arrived at the house. It is certainly a great deal more elaborate than I had anticipated. I wonder what we've gotten ourselves into…

* * *

_Later the same day…_

It appears that the house we are currently visiting is inhabited by the family of the dead man. Oh, now that we are in his family home, I suppose that I must now refer to him by his name, rather than 'the dead man,' for I rather think that it will sound callous in the ears of his kin.

The murder that we have been called to investigate is not the murder of Mr. Clay Anderson as I had originally thought. But I must start at the beginning in order to collect my thoughts upon the matter. This is what I have gathered from speaking to the family.

The current owner of the house is Lady Cecilia Deramore. Her husband was Lord Percival Deramore, who passed away ten years ago. Lady Deramore is the mother of five children, four of which live at home. Two of those children live with their respective spouses. All of the Deramore children were adopted from various families after the Lord and Lady realized that they could not have children shortly after their marriage.

The man known to us as Mr. Clay Anderson is actually Mr. Clay Deramore, which was not a particularly difficult leap. According to his brother Lancelot (affectionately known as Lance to his family), he became estranged from his mother about three years after the death of their father. He left the house with what remained of his inheritance from his father, changed his surname, and moved to London in order to get a fresh start. They had not heard anything from him until they received a call from the police shortly after his body was found. I gathered that there was no love lost with his mother, but there was a marked stain of grief on his brothers and sisters.

The murder that we were employed to investigate was that of one of the daughters of Lady Deramore. Miss Virginia Deramore was found dead in her room yesterday morning with no mark upon her body but cherry red blood around her mouth and nose and skin that was remarkably pink. There is to be an autopsy, but the initial report was death by cyanide poisoning. Judging by the description given to me by Lancelot, I am rather inclined to agree with such a diagnosis.

Our initial interview with Lady Deramore told us very little about the case. She essentially told us a brief amount about the estrangement with Clay Deramore as well as the circumstances surrounding her daughter's death. There wasn't much; according to Lady Deramore, there was no reason that anyone would want her daughter dead, and she wanted us to find out whether or not it was possible that her death was an accident. Holmes looked at her with the faintest amount of disbelief before excusing himself from the room.

I know that Holmes intends to speak with the other three Deramore children: Mr. Lancelot Deramore, Mr. August Deramore, and Miss Lacey Deramore. Out of the progenies, Virginia and August are married, and they live in the home of their mother, though it is evident that this is not without a fair amount of resentment.

It was surprising to all of the children that Clay managed to leave the house with his inheritance from his father. Lady Deramore keeps the money close to her chest, which is essentially why the other children have not moved into their own homes. They aren't equipped to earn money of their own, so they stay with their mother. I feel like I must withhold judgment, but I found that I was more than slightly disgusted at the actions of the mother.

Holmes wants to stay in the house to learn more about this case, and I was surprised to discover that Lady Deramore has agreed. When I asked Holmes whether or not he had thought this through, he simply said that he had taken the liberty of packing my suitcase before we had left London. He will telephone Mrs. Hudson directly and ask her to put the case on the train; I am to inform her if there is anything else that I would like her to include in the case before she sends it.

I am annoyed that he has done this. I have no interest in staying at this house, but I can see that I don't have much choice in the matter. Something is wrong in this house, though not on the surface. On the surface, this family appears to have a rocky relationship but nothing out of the ordinary. At the very least, nothing that should result in death by cyanide.

Well, I suppose that I can see Holmes' point. I just wish that we did not have to stay here. Holmes wishes to be in the thick of it and that's all there is to it. I simply do not feel strong enough to resist. I will be telling Mrs. Hudson to include a few items from my medical bag if I am to remain here at the house.

That is all for now. It is getting late and I must prepare for dinner. Something tells me that this will be more of an ordeal than I am in the mood for.

* * *

_**The following is a letter addressed to Colonel Moran, and dated 17 June 1896.**_

[_In the case of the reader wondering how this letter was obtained, I must plead my own silence. Suffice it to say that I was not made aware of the existence of this letter until many weeks after it was sent. The delivery went quite badly astray once it was delivered into the hands of the recipient._

_S.H_.]

My dear Colonel,

You always were far too spontaneous and foolish. Your mind is no match for that of Sherlock Holmes. In any case, I am relieved that you decided to purchase this flat. With a bit of luck, you will have purchased the vanity that I requested you buy as well. Even if you cannot think for yourself, you follow orders like a soldier, a fact that I must applaud you on.

And now, I imagine that you are ranting and railing about the flat that I have selected for you. You wish to know what this is all for. I shall tell you all in good time.

For now, it is important that you understand the overall goal behind this campaign. Every soldier must be able to see a large goal, I realize this.

Our goal is the ruin of Sherlock Holmes

Please note that I truly mean 'ruin' and not 'death' as you might imagine. Even though I have no doubt that you wish the great Sherlock Holmes dead, I must assure you that my way will be a much better revenge.

Why is this the case? Why do we wish his ruin rather than his death? A soldier like you may have difficulty understanding that death is not the end, especially in a case like this. Even if his body lies cold and still in a coffin in the ground, Sherlock Holmes will live on as a martyr in the minds of the population of London. Thanks to the memoires and writings of his companion Dr. John Watson. The writing up of the cases has made Mr. Sherlock Holmes a hero in the best tradition of cheap fiction as far as the general population is concerned.

Is that what you want, Colonel? Do you wish to make Sherlock Holmes a martyr for everything that he stands for? I cannot believe that this is so, no matter what you say. So surely, you understand the necessary aspect of secrecy and discretion. If you follow my orders, nothing will go wrong. Sherlock Holmes will be none the wiser to his ultimate downfall. If he dies, so much the better. But not before we have finished .

You will discover the full extent of my plan in time for I do not trust you to remain to what I have decided upon. You are impulsive and headstrong. Therefore, it is not wise for me to give you my plan in full at the moment. I will give you time to decide if you wish to accept this mission. On the evening of the 23rd, a messenger boy will arrive at this flat to give you my next letter. If you do not wish to obey my orders, send him away. If you are willing to do as I say, then I beg of you to please accept the letter and trust that I have a better knowledge of this affair that you do.

Only accept my second letter if you are willing to carry out the orders to the fullest extent. My people will know if you deviate, and they will inform me. I trust that you do not wish for me to find it necessary to take action.

Think it over. You have until the 23rd.

I remain, Colonel, faithfully yours,

Professor James Moriarty.


	7. Malcontent

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 17 June 1896. Late evening.**_

Well, I was certainly justified in my prediction that dinner would be an ordeal. I rather think that such dinner with an old English family is a tribulation for a private detective, not the consulting detective and his biographer. Nevertheless, Holmes appears to have thoroughly enjoyed this unique look at the woes of the Deramores. Really, for a man of his character, I find the eagerness to snap up their secrets more than slightly annoying.

But, perhaps, it is just my exhaustion that clouds my thoughts. The rain has continued, making my leg ache and my mood just as stormy as the weather. I was never much good at family politics, and I count myself remarkably fortunate that my awkwardness did not trip me up.

I knew as soon as we sat down to eat that I would never be able to keep all of the Deramores straight in my head; at least their adoptive status ensures that none of them look quite alike. I must make a note to remember to speak to a staff member to find the full story of the children. Something tells me that there is a lot more to this family than meets the eye.

Lady Deramore sat at the head of the table, looking severe in a burgundy dress that only served to articulate how pale, grey, and shriveled she was, despite copious amounts of rouge and lipstick. On one side of the table sat Lancelot, Lacey, and August, all keeping their gazes trained on their plates as though they daren't look around them for fear of being reprimanded. Holmes and I sat on the other side, accompanied by August and his wife Mary, as well as the late Virginia's husband John. There was a marked difference in the demeanor of Lady Deramore's children and their respective spouses; it was obvious that her children feared her, even now that they are grown. Quite frankly, it made for a rather depressingly inept start to the meal.

I had to resist the urge to pull at my collar as the meal began, for the atmosphere was absolutely stifling. It was so much so that I began to suspect that Lady Deramore intended for it to be so, and that it was not unusual. The feeling of fear had nothing to do with the fact that there were visitors at the table; it was the family's social norm. What a dismal thought.

The food, I noted, was rather simple and plain, not at all what you might expect from a seemingly wealthy family of this caliber. A single potato for everyone, a course that involved a meat that Lady Deramore insisted was chicken (although I rather suspected it was haddock), bits of fruit and cheese, a simple cake for dessert, one cup of coffee apiece, though it was not offered to Lady Deramore's own children. Holmes barely touched his food, but that was only to be expected. Lady Deramore seemed almost amused at his lack of appetite and did not show any offence. I, on the other hand, found it difficult to eat, for I was drained and in too much pain. Unfortunately, my reputation apparently does not allow me to decline any course of the meal without it resulting in a severe look and near tongue lashing from the lady of the house. Needless to say, I was obliged to bite my own tongue and eat, cursing Holmes for bringing me here all the while.

The conversation was absolutely no distraction from the pain, as it was almost nonexistent. By the time we were halfway through the meal, I understood just how ridiculous this entire situation really was. I saw no point in Lady Deramore being so controlling that she would not allow speech at her table, for it was obvious that the children knew better than to start a conversation. Even their spouses didn't attempt any speech. No doubt they had learned in the past that it simply wasn't worth it. I suppose that I found Lady Deramore's controlling nature to be absolutely ludicrous. Her children are all grown; even her youngest is in her early twenties. But there was nothing that we could do to dispel the mood.

* * *

After the meal, we retired to the sitting room. If the meal was poorly constructed, the splendor of the sitting room more than made up for it; apparently the Lady Deramore preferred to spend her money on decorating her house rather than food for her family. The walls were of a salmon color, covered with paintings of all sizes and colors. Dark colored drapes lined the windows, although I couldn't quite appreciate their effect. The room was furnished, though only slightly, as chairs and end tables lined the walls, leaving a large space in the middle as if for dancing.

I didn't expect the conversation to begin, but begin it did. Only at Lady Deramore's blessing, mind. In the beginning, the talk was mild, conversing about the weather and the rising prices of God knows what. Not a single mention of their deceased brother and sister. I didn't want to seem insensitive, but it seemed like they might have been a little more distressed at the deaths. Two horrid deaths and not an eyelash batted. Incredible.

Except for little Lacey. Well, I say little, but she's actually quite a beautiful young woman. She sat alone in the corner of the room on an armchair, her dark hair covering the magazine that she was reading. Every so often she would look up and shake her pale head at her siblings; she appeared to have inherited her complexion from her mother, although her face had a warm, youthful glow that her mother had lost many years ago. Even Lacey knew better than to challenge the status quo.

But I found myself impatient at their behavior. I couldn't just sit back and discuss the weather, not if I was expected to be civil. I made my way across the room, leaning heavily on the cane that I had brought, and gestured at the chair across from her, offering her a smile. "May I?"

"Oh, please," she said, looking surprised and slightly taken aback by my request.

I settled myself in the chair, exhaling softly in relief as I was able to take the weight off of the throbbing leg. "It was very good of your mother to allow us to stay here," I said by way of starting a conversation. "I must say that I hadn't expected such a privilege."

"It's no trouble," she said in a light, airy voice that seemed suppressed. "I'm sure that Mother wanted your companion to be able to clear up this business quickly. This was the best way to do so. That's all."

"Nevertheless, we do appreciate it. Mr. Holmes is much more efficient when he's on location, so to speak."

Her face remained perfectly straight as she nodded. "I take it that you are quite experienced in matters of this kind, Dr. Watson. Murder, I mean."

"Oh, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that," I said with a waft of my hand, trying to expel memories of bodies so as not to unnerve this girl who appeared quite breakable. "But Mr. Holmes is certainly very qualified for this case." I paused to clear my throat, glancing around the room. "I take it that you were very close to your sister?"

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Not particularly. I loved my sister, but we were never close. She was so different than I, and I never really had very much in common. Aside from our backgrounds, of course. Being adopted really does give you something to cry about and you can easily cry together. But she was always so dramatic all the time. I do miss her and I'm sorry that her death was so horrid, but I am a bit relieved in some ways. At least she won't have to deal with our mother any longer."

I tried not to stare at her as I processed this information. "What was she like? Your sister?"

"She was always very into histrionics, always carrying on about one thing or another. She was very close to our father, and she tended to get extremely weepy and anxious whenever he was away. She was the last of us to be adopted, you see, so she had the least amount of time with him. I thought that she would waste away when he died, but she didn't. She was still very upset, even now. All these years later."

Her simple tone was beginning to unnerve me; I had expected the weepiness from this girl, not her sister. Lacey seemed rather indifferent to her family's situation, and I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that.

"Did she seem particularly upset before she died?" I asked, trying to get a better feel for the persona of the dead girl. "Any more so than usual?"

Lacey considered for a moment. "No more than usual. She was always upset about one thing or another. It used to drive Mother mad, but there you are. I wonder if Mother is relieved that she's gone. Yes, I think that she is, rather. I know that I look forward to not having to try to cope with her hysterics. I don't cope well with drama, you see."

"I see," I said with a shake of my head, unsure how else to respond to her. "But surely you still grieve for your sister."

"Oh, of course we all do. It's only right. I think that Lance misses her more than any of us. You might want to speak with him if you want more information about her character. I know that my judgment is clouded because we never saw eye to eye." Lacey closed the magazine that had been resting on her lap as we had spoken. "I can call him over now, if you'd like. Unless you prefer to talk to him in private. I'm sure that Mother will excuse him from the customary repartee of the evening either way."

"I would rather like to speak to him in private if it could be arranged," I said, looking over at the gathering of the rest of the family members across the room. "It's customary to speak to each suspect alone, you understand."

She looked amused at my choice of words. "Am I a suspect then?" she asked, a tiny smile flitting across her equally tiny lips. "I didn't think, although I suppose that I had as good a motive as any since I really didn't like her and that is common knowledge."

"I really don't understand why your sister's death doesn't seem to be affecting you, Miss Deramore," I said, not able to hold the question in any longer. "Do you suppose that you could elaborate for me?"

"Not for you," she said with a shake of her head. "Perhaps for your companion. He is the detective, after all. You're nothing more than a doctor."

The words had a fresh tone to them, but I couldn't help but feel the sting; it was impossible to tell whether or not she meant it to be as insulting as it came across. "I see," I said again, really not quite sure what I was supposed to say to this strange girl. "Well, I think that I'll speak to your brother now, if you will excuse me."

"Of course, Dr. Watson," she said, opening the magazine again and beginning to read. "I have every faith in your ability to find out what happened."

And with that, I realized that I had been dismissed. Unfortunately, Lady Deramore had the same thought and took this opportunity to send all of us to bed. I expected Holmes to say something in response to this unprecedented order, but he simply obeyed silently and followed the children out of the room. I would have spoken to him then and there if I hadn't felt the need to get to bed as soon as I could, for I was finding it difficult to stand upright for any period of time because of my leg.

Fortunately, Holmes took notice of my pain and gently grabbed ahold of my elbow to help me up the stairs after all of the children and Lady Deramore had passed. "I appreciate your staying here with me more than you realize, Watson," he said, allowing me to put my weight on his body as we began to mount the stairs. "This kind of experience will be just what I need for this case."

"I notice that you are ready and willing to succumb to Lady Deramore's every command. Just as willing as her children." I grimaced as I took another step up.

"And that's where you are only partially correct, and yet more correct than you comprehend. Her children do not have any desire to listen to her commands, and yet they do so because she intimidates them."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Their behavior over dinner. She expects silence, and so she receives it. But not without a certain amount of bitterness. Even the husband and the wife did not show as much bitterness as the adopted children. I believe that Lady Deramore knows of their discontent, and yet she is confident that she will be able to continue to reign over their lives."

"Lacey Deramore is an interesting piece," I commented, feeling a bit of relief as I noticed we were nearly at the top of the stairs. Finally. "Have you spoken to her in any detail yet?"

"Not as comprehensively as you have," said Holmes, shifting so as to better balance the weight on his shoulder. "But I gather than she is not particularly grieved by her sister's death. Even you could have deduced that without talking to her."

I had to grudgingly admit that he was right; all of the children with the possible exception of Lancelot seemed a bit too resigned to their sister's death. "Do you think that they had a hand in her death?"

"It would not surprise me in the least," he said. We reached the top of the stairs and I gratefully transferred my weight to the cane. "There is something very wrong here, and you just happened to hear it firsthand from their little mystic. I feel that they know a great deal more than they are willing to tell us, naturally. All we have to do is take the time to discover exactly what that is. And why they felt the need to call in a consulting detective."

I shook my head wearily. "Such deductions will have to wait until the morning, Holmes."

My words appeared to jar him out of his thoughts. "How thoughtless of me, Watson! Your illness had slipped my mind momentarily and I have allowed you to overwork yourself. I am so sorry, my dear fellow. Go now to your room and we will not speak of this until tomorrow."

"Thank you, Holmes," I said, choosing not to comment on his apparent forgetfulness.

So, I am now alone in the room, for I found myself unable to sleep. But the light from the fire is beginning to die and I must rest my head. I shall set all these thoughts aside until the morning.


	8. Man of a Different Color

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 18 June 1896.**_

Hopkins has expressed an undeniable amount of… aggravation regarding Holmes and the doctor visiting the house of the late Clay Anderson's family. Or, Clay Deramore, as I suppose that I should say now.

Honestly, I can't stand much more of his moaning. He was the one who had requested that I join him in this case. Did he not realize that I would assist in the case in my own way? I'm beginning to realize just how incompetent he really is; if the chief inspector hadn't insisted that I stay on this case, I would abandon it in a second. He never acted in this way before I called upon Sherlock Holmes. His behavior is becoming amateurish and downright annoying. I do hope that Holmes manages to sort this business out soon; I don't think that I'll be able to take much more of this.

In any case, it's certainly motivating me to work considerably faster than normal. Not content to let Holmes and Watson do all the work on the battlefield, I've been doing some sniffing of my own on the home front. Even when he doesn't know it, Hopkins is becoming a prime bloodhound; point him in the right direction and you never know what he'll turn up. In many ways, I wonder whether the job of an inspector is the right one for him.

While Holmes has been investigating the Deramores, Hopkins and I have been on the trail of the strange Toulson family. I was curious to see just how they came into the game, and so was quite surprised to make a startling discovery about them. The "Toulsons" do not exist anywhere in London under that name. There is no record of them anywhere, and not even the Baker Street Irregulars were able to come up with anything on them.

However, when I gave the supposed Mr. Toulson's description to the boys, they were able to dig up a man who matched. Hopkins and I paid him a visit this afternoon with the full intention of getting some of this story straightened out.

We chose not to comment on his apparent anonymity, at least for the majority of the interview. I had the impression that he had been expecting us. Not only that, but I wondered if the difficulty we had experienced had been deliberate. A test to see if we were capable of finding him. Thank goodness that we appeared to have passed at least that much.

During the initial meeting at the mortuary, he had mentioned a wife. I asked if she was available to speak to as well, for I knew that we would have to question her sooner or later. He said that she was not, and his face suggested confusion. I wasn't entirely sure what to make of that, but decided not to press him. If I hadn't trusted his testimony, I would have thought that he had lied about having a wife. Well, I don't necessarily trust that testimony, but the paperwork involved in proving him wrong would have been a nightmare with so little to go on.

When we asked him to tell us about his ward, the story that he told was warm and touching. A story about a lonely man and his wife who had taken in the estranged boy and given him everything that he needed to be successful. He was a wonderful son to them, and they loved him very dearly. He was never in trouble, and he had no enemies, aside from his family. But they had never set much store by his family anyway. They had known that he had found his home with them and they never wanted him to leave. They saw no earthly reason why he should have been killed; his relationship with his blood relatives wasn't that bad, as far as they had known.

It wasn't difficult to tell that this man wasn't going to cooperate. Whether or not he actually knew something wasn't clear; all that I knew was that he wasn't going to talk out of stubbornness.

After all the time that I had spent chasing this man, I was very annoyed that he remained unwilling to cooperate. But I also wonder if he isn't just being stubborn; it's entirely possible that he simply doesn't know anything. And I'm beginning to lean in that direction, although Hopkins is convinced that he's lying. I don't know…

It seems to me like Mr. Toulson has no reason to lie to us if he wasn't the killer, and I doubt that he is even physically strong enough to do such a deed, especially now that I've gotten a good look at how skinny he is. No meat on his bones to speak of. There is a great deal still to be known at this point in the investigation. I must see what other leads I can discover, though we'll certainly be keeping an eye on this man.

I can only hope that Holmes and Watson will be able to uncover something at the Deramores. They haven't sent me any word since they had arrived, so I have no idea if they are even progressing at all. I'd expect nothing less from Sherlock Holmes. The trail is running cold in London.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mary Watson. Entry dated 18 June 1896.**_

There is still no sign of a train that will be able to take me back to London. I feel so frustrated at this turn of events; I had no idea that John would get himself into so much trouble while I was away. He says that he's recovering, but I can't stand not being there with him.

I spoke to Mrs. Hudson this morning, and she told me that John had gone to a manor house in the country with Sherlock. Part of me is relieved that he is on a case, for I know that it will help heal his mind to be out with Sherlock. But I also fear that he will overexert himself, for he sounded so poorly when he spoke to me yesterday. He never was very adept at stopping himself when he needs rest and that is what worries me most of all. I do wonder how he managed to cope when he lived with Sherlock on his own; I expect that Mrs. Hudson really did have her hands full with the two of them.

I don't understand how John became ill; it's my understanding that he was poisoned, but the source of the poison is unknown, as is the impending assassin. I worry that he will return to finish the job. At least I know that he is with Sherlock and that Sherlock will certainly be able to put the business to an end.

Mrs. Forrerster has told me not to worry, and that I am welcome to continue staying with her as long as I like. As wonderful as it has been to see her again, I count off the days until I can return to London.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 18 June 1896.**_

Thank goodness that breakfast is a relatively independent affair in this household; I couldn't bear the idea of a repeat of last night's dinner quite so early in the morning.

I haven't seen Holmes at all since I went downstairs to eat, although that was not entirely unexpected. The dining room was empty except for a footman standing at attention next to an impressive spread of breakfast foods. By the looks of things, it hadn't been touched by the rest of the family; how curious that the lady of the house is a firm believer in the philosophy that breakfast is indeed the most important meal of the day.

The footman looked straight ahead of him, unmoving in a way that suggested that he actually wasn't present in the room, as I surveyed the options. I leaned heavily on the cane, more from the lingering exhaustion then from intense pain. What a curious mix of weariness and just enough pain to make it difficult to stand upright. It was certainly not an ideal combination for handling a breakfast at which one was expected to serve himself.

"Do you think that you could assist me in this?" I asked the footman, deciding that I might as well use his services if he would have to stand there anyway. In the end, I really wanted to speak to him about the family; this was as good a conversation starter as any.

He only nodded, stepping forward to take a white china plate from the stack on the edge of the line. The actual process of asking him to add items to my plate seemed a bit awkward to the both of us, but I managed to get enough food to last me awhile and seat myself. As soon as he had placed the plate on the table in front of me, he resumed his motionless position by the food. I noted how his face had not changed once during the entire process.

"How long have you been working here?" I asked nonchalantly, getting together a forkful of egg. I almost didn't expect him to answer, but he blinked in surprise before regaining his composure. This appeared to be the invitation that he had been waiting for.

"I've been here since I was a boy. Started out as the hall boy and worked my way up. I've been here for all of their adoptions, if that's what you mean." His tone was flat and unemotional, but I felt as though he understood a lot more than he was letting on. He certainly seemed more willing to speak than his employers, even when you took his stiffness into account.

"Yes, that was what I was wondering." I took another bite of egg and chewed thoughtfully as he waited for me to press the point; I wondered if the Deramores should be concerned about the fact that he was so ready to speak of them in this manner. After another moment, I decided to ask him the question that his face so obviously wanted. "What's your opinion of the family?"

His arms had been strictly at attention, but now he held them loosely at his side, as though my question had given him permission to become more discrete in body as well as in words.

"They're all a bunch of quacks." His eyes widened at his own words and I wondered if he would clap a hand over his mouth. "Always have been and always will be. Not surprised that one of them cracked and had it in for Miss Ginny."

"So you think that her death was caused by one of the family members?" In this kind of situation, I had found that it was best to remain neutral. I was curious to discover the kind of knowledge that this boy possessed. And he seemed promising after having known the family for so long.

"You wouldn't ask that question if you knew them as well as I do. I've known 'em for years. Every single one of them is capable of murder if they put their mind to it. Or if the mistress put them up to it." The speed of his words had increased and he appeared to be tripping over his own tongue.

"What do you think actually happened? Did Lady Deramore make her children kill their sister?" I wasn't able to keep the tone dispassionate anymore. This family was more damaged than I had dared believe.

"Anything's possible. The way I see it, either Lady Deramore put them up to it or she did it herself."

"Why would she want her daughter dead?"

"Not my place to say. Don't know much about it anyway. Still, she didn't get along with her very well. Maybe it was easier to get her out of the way entirely instead of just disinheriting her. And if her kids got the money that she would have received, that means that everyone benefits."

I shook my head in amazement. "But that still doesn't explain why her siblings would be willing to poison her just because their mother told them to. Surely loyalty and fear only goes so far."

He shrugged as though details of that kind didn't really matter. "I have no idea what she specifically said, but I'm sure that she had something to do with it. Probably didn't kill her with her own hands; she's too lazy to get her hands dirty like that."

I suddenly found it difficult to swallow my breakfast. Thankful that I had opted for a small plateful, I forced another bite of egg down my throat. "That's quite a theory…" I trailed off, waiting for him to say his name.

"Thomas," he said automatically. "My name is Thomas. And I doubt very much that it is a theory. More likely that it's the truth."

I passed a hand through my hair as I set the fork down. It would have to be enough of a breakfast effort. "Thank you very much for your help, Thomas. I don't think that I would have come to that conclusion without your information." And that much was certainly the truth.

He looked rather pleased with himself as he nodded congenially. "Only too happy to help, sir. If you require any other knowledge, please don't hesitate to ask."

"I'll certainly keep that in mind," I said with a smile and a nod. I got to my feet, arranging the cane so that I could stand properly. I gave him another nod before exiting the room.

And now I believe that I can hear Holmes in the next room. I must inform him what's been going on and what the footman said. I have a feeling that he won't have seen this one coming.

* * *

_**The following is a note from a scrap of paper found by myself in the hall of the Deramore house. It is not dated but it is assumed that it was sent on either the 17**__**th**__** or more likely the 18**__**th**__** of the month.**_

Lacey,

I think that the detective and his partner are going to be on to us soon if they aren't already. You have to be careful to make sure that they don't ask the right questions. If Mother finds out, we will not live long enough to explain. Please, just be careful. We've come too far to back out now. Don't let anything else happen.

Meet me in my room before supper. I want to know what the doctor was asking you.

-August

* * *

**Author's Note: The reference to Mrs. Forrester above is a callback to the first chapter because I've changed the person that Mary was visiting after a canon reminder. **


	9. Désagrégation

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 18 June 1896.**_

Thankfully, I found Holmes in the bedroom that had been assigned to him, rather than a room occupied by one of the family members; I would not put it past him to find a way to push his nose into the business of this family. Not that I could really blame him, though, after everything that we've learned about this odd family thus far.

Holmes was seated in an armchair next to the lavish, canopied bed that took up most of the room. I had to make my way around the forest green bedspread that had been left at the end of the bed in order to reach him; I wasn't entirely certain that the spread wasn't alive, when I considered the fact that it was trying to trip me with every step, getting tangled around my cane. He glanced up at me as I nearly tumbled over, finally resorting to sitting on the bed. "Is it really too much to ask that you make your bed when we are guests in this house?" I asked, trying to adjust myself a bit more comfortably on the sheets.

"I've come across a curious happening in this house, Watson," he said, holding up the stack of papers that he had just been reading.

"As have I. One of their footmen, who has been here since he was a child, has told me -"

"No, that's incorrect." Holmes leaned over to the bedside table and spread his papers out thoughtfully.

"What is?" I asked, although I knew full well what he meant.

"He has not been here since he was a child. None of them have. The only ones who have been here for any real length of time are the butler and the cook." Holmes had pulled a small magnifying glass out of a drawer, and was examining the text of his papers.

"Holmes, that isn't yours," I scolded. He looked up at me in faint amusement before delving back into whatever he was looking for. "Then why did the boy downstairs tell me otherwise?"

"I expect that was Thomas. He did strike me as one who tends to tell tales." His tone was slow and methodic as he scanned the page, running a finger across the lines as his glass followed. "The boy came to this house about a month ago, replacing a footman who had been employed here no more than two months. It would appear that the Deramores go through staff at an alarming rate."

I considered this for a moment. "He seemed to be under the impression that Lady Deramore told one of her children to commit the murder of their sister. He said that they would do anything that she told them, now that they've been given proper motivation."

"Did he now," mused Holmes, finally setting the magnifying glass aside and leaning back in his armchair. "And I suppose you find that difficult to believe."

"Well, I don't know what I believe," said I. "All that I know is that we're currently residing in a house of madmen who are apparently incapable of telling the truth, whether or not they are guilty of a crime."

Holmes chuckled, reaching over to gather up his papers and hand them to me. "Then it is lucky for you that I have been doing my own research, incognito, so to speak." He noticed the disapproving look that I aimed his way, and smiled, shaking his head. "I expect that you do not approve of my methods, Watson."

"That depends on what you've done this time around," I said accusingly, taking the papers and beginning to thumb through them. "Holmes, this is in French."

"And I am fairly certain that you learnt the language when you were a schoolboy," said Holmes, lacing his fingers together and looking at me expectantly.

I shook my head at him, looking back at the document, attempting a rough translation in my head. "What am I meant to be looking for?"

He got to his feet, reaching over to comb through the papers for a moment before handing me a sheet and pointing to a specific passage:

_L'attention est impossible, la volonté et le jugement sont presque toujours absents ; c'est aussi bien une pensée en état de désagrégation qu'une personnalité en voie de formation.*_

I squinted at it, rubbing a finger on the bridge of my nose. "Attention is impossible…" I spoke slowly, casting my mind back to my days at university for any assistance possible. "The desire and the judgment are almost always absent... That is the state of mind in a disintegrating personality forming." Reaching the end, I glanced up at Holmes, unsure of what this was supposed to be telling me.

Holmes nodded and took the stack in his hands, shaking his head slightly. "I found this in Lancelot Deramore's bedroom. They were pages of a large book, but the book was falling apart, more pages having fallen out than remained in. I only took those that wouldn't be missed." He avoided my judgmental stare without missing a beat. "These are pages from a book written by Pierre Janet, a student of psychology at the time. The book is called _L'automatisme psychologique_. Among other things, the book refers to the désagrégation theory."

"And you believe that someone in this house…"

"Is a victim of the dissociation condition, yes." He set the pages aside and crossed the room to open his case and remove his beloved pipe.

"Well, couldn't the book have simply been in his room for recreational reading or for his studies?" I asked, pursing my lips slightly.

"Recreational reading? I doubt it very much, Watson. That book had been read to tatters. Far too often for it to be simply a favorite volume, and I cannot see the lady of the house promoting this kind of reading material. No, I would strongly suspect that Mr. Lancelot has come across someone with this condition, or perhaps even he himself has experienced its effects at one time or another." He paused in the action of lighting the pipe to look over at me. "You are knowledgeable about this condition as a medical man, I expect?"

I nodded, shifting on the bed so that I could see him better. "Split personality. Quite often accompanied with amnesia of the second personality so that the victim doesn't know he has the condition."

"Quite so." Holmes lit the pipe and inhaled with a grateful sigh.

"But this is incredible, Holmes. I mean, how could you expect this to be the case? There is absolutely nothing but these shredded pages to give you any proof of such a condition."

"No, I have no proof as of yet. But I am confident that some will come my way."

"Who do you expect has this condition that you speak of?" I asked, knowing that he was hinting that this person might have committed the murder of Virginia without even realizing it. "And how did they develop it?"

"I cannot say at this time," he said, taking another drag on his pipe. "But I am certain that I am correct." He looked pointedly at me, raising an eyebrow. "We need more information, Watson. We need to discover what we can about the childhood of the Deramore offspring. You are aware that they are all adopted?"

"Yes, I am. It's quite possible that they came from violent backgrounds of some sort, I suppose."

"Very possible. I propose that you speak with the butler of the household. He has known the children longer than even their mother, I would wager."

"And why is that?" I asked, getting to my feet and making my way around the maze of bedclothes once more.

"Because their mother, for all that she controls them, hardly knows them. There is much to be done, Watson. I hope that you are up for this?"

"I certainly am, Holmes."

My leg still causes me considerable pain, and I fear that I am still weary from the effects of my illness. Mary would surely scold me if she knew how much strain I am putting on myself. But I understand the importance of solving this case. I understand that it is part of a larger picture that needs to be solved before we can return to London. And that return cannot come soon enough, in my humble opinion.

* * *

_**Passage taken from the notebook of myself, Sherlock Holmes, reporting only the facts as they appeared in the hope that it will illuminate the reader. Dated 19 June 1896.**_

The apparently secret rendezvous between Lacey and August Deramore seems to support the theory of dissociation. In any case, they share a knowledge with their brother Lancelot that suggests fear. I do not believe that they know the exact identity of the killer of their sister, but I would say that they have a suspicion that they have not outwardly told either myself or the police. I heard them speaking in whispers in the room next to mine late last night; I was only able to understand the occasional whisper, but I feel as though I understood the gist of their conversation. It is most unfortunate that they have not seen fit to grace me with this information of their own free will.

August Deramore has supported the theory of amnesia; Lacey Deramore confirmed it. I will speak to their brother in the morning to make sense of this. He will tell me what I need to know. I will employ Watson's assistance in case of hesitation.

I observed Lacey Deramore leaving her brother's room shortly after their conversation, though she was not aware of the fact that I was present. I saw her cross the hall to the door opposite mine, before seeming to change her mind and move down the dark hallway to a large window a few feet away from my door. Although I was not able to see her face in the shadows, I heard her begin to laugh in a manner that built in intensity the longer it went on.

Another sound of laughing came from the room of her brother, and I must confess that I found their reaction to be quite baffling. It leaves me uneasy to see firsthand the powers of darkness that are at work in this strange house. I must confess that I will be relieved to have myself and Watson safely home to Baker Street once more.

* * *

_**The following is a telegram sent from Detective Inspector Lestrade on the 19**__**th**__** of June 1896.**_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Care Somerton House, Deramore Residence_

_Toulson nonexistent, unhelpful. Unsure he is important in case. Hopkins on trail of new suspect, will report soon. Plan to arrive at Somerton House on 21 June __if we have not heard otherwise._

_Lestrade_

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 19 June 1896.**_

Hopkins seems sure that he's found something big, but I haven't seen anything to suggest such an achievement. All I know is that he's gone and disappeared, leaving me to explain to our superiors. I think it's doubtful that he's actually found anything of importance, but there's nothing to be done now that he's gone and I don't know where he is.

Sent a wire to Holmes this morning to let him know what's happening here in London. I still haven't heard anything from the man since he went to Somerton House, but I expected as much. He's not one to keep me informed. I must trust him here, but I doubt that my superiors will see it in the same way. I will give him two days before I travel up there. Hopefully that will keep the chief inspector at bay, and give Holmes the time that he needs to uncover what he can. I can only hope that the family up there will be more receptive to a private detective, even one so arrogant as Sherlock Holmes, than they would be to a detective inspector of Scotland Yard. One can only hope.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 19 June 1896.**_

Holmes informed me this morning of the strange laughter heard in the hall outside of his room in the night. I must confess to having heard it as well, for it is virtually impossible that I would have missed it. The sound startled me, and I confess a certain amount of anxiety at the memory. It was the strangest sound that I'd ever heard, and not something that I would like to hear again. I had so hoped that the entire family wasn't mad, but I'm beginning to have my doubts.

I attempted to meet with Lancelot Deramore yesterday afternoon, but he had gone out riding, according to his sister-in-law, Mary. She told me that he often does so, and that there was no way of knowing how soon he would be back.

I engaged her in casual conversation, wondering just how much she knew about the strange demeanor of her new family. She told me that she had only been married to August Deramore for about seven months. It had been an arranged marriage, for she was the daughter of an earl. Although she did not say so outwardly, I gathered that the marriage was not a happy one. Still, it would appear that their relationship was simply difficult, and not physically abusive as I had originally feared when I had seen how passionate she was when speaking about her husband.

She seemed willing to speak about the family in a way that rang true to my ears. I gather that she has no love for any of them, and the simple fact both saddened and heartened me, for I knew that she might be able to supply information that the others would not. I had asked about the health of her husband, telling her that I had heard something strange in the night. She informed me that she had gone to bed late and that her husband had been asleep when she'd arrived. Lady Mary's tone suggested that she had either been avoiding him, or she had been expressly told not to come to bed before a certain time. I rather suspected that it was a combination of both factors.

In all honesty, I felt sorry for this wretched woman. She seems very unhappy, despite everything. I found myself wondering if she was close to her late sister-in-law, but did not have the heart to ask her. Simply talking about her husband was enough to put tears in her eyes, and I did not think it proper to press the issue any further. I thanked her for her help and left her looking considerably more cheerful; perhaps it was just a kind word that was needed. I doubt she gets many in this place.

I plan to speak to Lancelot Deramore as soon as I get an opportunity to do so. That is, if Holmes doesn't speak to her first.

* * *

**Author's Notes: **

**The passage read and translated by Watson does not belong to me. It is from the aforementioned book, written by psychologist Pierre Janet. I am merely borrowing it for the sake of the story.**

**I also take the liberty of assuming that Holmes does speak French. Most gentlemen of the time would have been expected to speak it fluently. But, for canon specifics, towards the end of The Red-Headed League, Sherlock says, "L'homme c'est rien - l'oeuvre c'est tout" meaning "The man is nothing - his work is all that matters."**


	10. Rather Delicate Matters

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 19 June 1896.**_

As I got onto the landing above the foyer, I became aware of the fact that the butler, a tall, shriveled man, was answering the bell. Pausing for a moment out of sheer curiosity, I watched as he admitted a most familiar personage into the house.

It is hardly necessary to describe the man, for many will remember him, yet I will do so for the sake of my notes regarding this case. From that angle, I could only see his lustrous top-hat, his dark frock-coat, and the carefully varnished shoes. But even from this distance, the meticulous care in dress for which he was famous was most apparent. Sir James Damery held himself like the aristocrat he was as he scanned the dimly lit foyer of the house.

His eye caught mine as he glanced around, and I could see a question flicker across his face as he nodded politely. As the butler led him into the morning room, I could not help but wonder what brought him to this house.

Readers may recall his conferences with Sir George Lewis concerning the Hammerford Will case, or, more recently, his dealings with General de Merville and his daughter Violet. Holmes once told me that this man has rather a reputation for arranging delicate matters that must be kept out of the papers. His diplomacy is renowned among the correct circles, the Deramores undoubtedly being among such people.

It was certainly obvious that I would not be able to speak with Sir James for quite some time, as he was otherwise engaged with the lady of the house. Therefore, I took it upon myself to attend the meeting with Lancelot that had been escaping me for quite some time now.

The meeting, such as it was, began with rather a most literal bang. After having seen Sir James, I continued up the stairs with the intention of going to Lancelot's room. I rounded a corner, and then was knocked off my feet, my cane flying in an unknown direction as something appeared to slam into me. Taken completely by surprise, I lay on the floor for a moment before a surprised voice cried out, hands gesturing toward me as though trying to help me up.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Doctor," Lacey Deramore said, her face obviously quite upset. "I didn't see you there."

Her brother Lancelot was with her, and he motioned for his sister to retrieve the cane as he helped me to my feet. "Are you alright, Doctor?" he asked, as Lacey sheepishly handed me the cane.

I considered for a brief moment, ignoring the stabbing pain that was coming from an angry knee. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you." I took the cane, transferring my weight from the brother to the stick. "Is… is everything all right? You seemed to be in quite a hurry."

"Oh, we're just fine. We were just fooling," said Lacey, her face flushed.

Although I had not seen them before I was on the floor, I was fairly certain that it was Lacey who had knocked me down, and not her brother. Lancelot had been a few seconds behind her. I hadn't heard anything, but now I was beginning to wonder if the cry that I had heard had not been apologetic. Rather a shout of something else entirely. Had he been chasing her?

"No harm done," I said finally, deciding that they obviously did not want me to know what had been happening for whatever reason. There was no point in pursuing the matter.

As Lacey began to slink off down the stairs, I put a hand out to stop her brother. "I was wondering if I may speak with you, Sir Lancelot," I said gently, searching his face. "In the interest of the case of your sister's murder."

"Of course, Dr. Watson," he said, looking down the stairs after his sister as though trying to decide if he should pursue her. "Where shall we go to talk?"

"Here suits me as well as anywhere, if you have no objections."

"Certainly not."

He sat down on the step, and I carefully lowered myself next to him. He looked down at his grey suit, rubbing a bit of the material between his fingers in a way that betrayed his nervousness. I couldn't help but wonder if the event that I had just "witnessed" had something to do with his discomfort.

"What would you like to ask me?" he asked, glancing over at me. He was a rather attractive young man, his hair cut short, though not cropped as closely as you might imagine. His face was young, but made old by a pair of green eyes that… held something unknown. Perhaps age, but that did not seem to be the case. What a strange boy, he is.

"Were you very close to your late sister?"

There was a long silence, though he did not appear to be considering the question. "Perhaps more close to her than our other siblings. She was young, delicate. She tried the patience of everyone with her hysterics, but I was always willing to be with her. Make sure that she took her powders and got enough rest. She was like a little flower. It didn't take much to throw her out of balance and into a fit."

"Lady Lacey has told me that your mother had little patience for her fits."

"That is a gross understatement, Dr. Watson." He paused to look down at his hands again. "My mother saw no reason to stand for Virginia's fits. She was… most cruel to her."

I could see that he did not want to be telling anyone this. As the oldest brother in the family, I knew that had a unique relationship with his brother and sisters. And after the death of his father… it was difficult to imagine what this young boy had gone through. He couldn't have been much older than twenty-five. I decided not to press the point. That would be for Holmes to do.

"Virginia was very ill," he continued of his own accord, apparently not aware of my presence any longer. "My mother did not seem to understand that. Then again, I wouldn't expect her to. It was because of her that Virginia became so delicate in the first place. You can hardly blame her after everything that she went through. It was disgusting. No less than what the rest of us went through, but her mind shattered like no other."

"The rest of you?" I hated to ask the question, but I felt like it must be asked.

"We were all adopted, as you know. Mother couldn't have children. Virginia was a Catholic girl's shame, you might say. She was left in the gutter, and found by our gardener when she was about two years old. The fact that she was even still alive… it was incredible. Mother hated us. She hated the fact that she couldn't have her own children. We were punished. We were not her children, and that was crime enough for her."

I didn't want to hear this story. What must it have been like for these children to live through it?

"The end result was that we were all damaged in one way or another. Virginia was simply the most noticeable. But she was a sweet girl. So beautiful and happy when she wasn't upset. Those times became more and more infrequent as we drew closer to her death. I don't know what happened to trigger her sudden deterioration. But I would bet anything that Mother had something to do with it."

"Do you believe that she was murdered?" I asked softly, putting a hand on his shoulder that he didn't seem to notice.

"I want to. But I don't know. Virginia was increasingly more desperate as time went by. Perhaps someone convinced her to take the poison. Perhaps she did it of her own accord. In any case, she's dead. And Mother is responsible, whether or not she held the cup."

I must confess that I had no idea what to say in response to this story. I was rather inclined to believe him. But I could see that he was quite upset, so I thought it best to change the subject. "Have any of your other siblings experienced ill effects from your childhood?"

He must have immediately picked up on the fact that I was referring to a mental disease. Whether or not he realized that my suspicions were beginning to turn to Lacey was a different matter entirely. "I don't want to talk about this."

He was on his feet now, rushing down the stairs, as though following after his sister. She may have been long gone by now, but that wasn't about to stop him.

I watched him leave with a feeling of incredulity. What in the world had possessed him to leave in such a way? Was I correct about Lacey? What bearing did that have on the case, if any at all? I shook my head, realizing that I was going to have to somehow get to my feet.

I pushed down on the cane in front of me, trying to carefully guide myself up. Luckily, the motion was not needed, for I felt hands on my elbow, guiding me to my feet.

"That was a most interesting interview, Watson, do you not think?"

I straightened my jacket as I turned to face Holmes. "Quite so. Did you learn anything from it?"

"I rather think that Lacey Deramore is certainly the one that we are looking for as far as the dissociation is concerned. Did you not see his face when you asked your last question?" he folded his arms, leaning against the bannister.

"I did. Do you think that she has anything to do with the death of her sister?"

"That I am not sure of. But I expect that evidence will surface in time."

"Have you seen who has arrived downstairs?" I asked, adjusting my grip on the cane.

"No, I have not." His face betrayed his interest, and he nodded for me to follow him down the stairs. We began to slowly descend.

"Sir James Damery."

At that, he paused in mid step, his eyes going wild with a certain amount of fascination. "Really? Well now, that is most interesting. I wonder what it is that we have stumbled upon for the lady of the house to need to call upon Sir James."

"I cannot imagine," said I, continuing down the stairs. "But I do hope for a meeting with him before he leaves the house."

"I doubt you will be able to procure such a meeting. The lady will surely have forbidden him to speak of this matter to anyone, ourselves especially. No, we will need to continue on our weary way. The answers that we seek will become apparent in time, as they always do."

"One can hope."

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 19 June 1896.**_

The absence of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson makes for a most quiet household. Inspector Lestrade has been checking in on me at least once a day. He says that his visits were requested by Mr. Holmes to keep me safe, but I do wonder if it isn't because the inspector himself is worried about me. He is such a dear man, even if he is a bit rough around the edges.

Annie Lestrade sent little Jemmy and his sister Sadie 'round this morning to deliver a note. She had invited me for a spot of tea, and I was glad for a chance to leave the house and visit with her again. I went together with the two back to their house, Jemmy chattering away as we walked. I cannot get over just how much the boy has grown up since I saw him last. He is growing into a fine young thing, and his sister is just beautiful.

The visit with Annie was just lovely. Her little ones have been ill recently, so I knew that she was glad to have a bit of company as well. She told me all about the children, and her husband and how he has been doing at Scotland Yard. I know that she is quite proud of him, and for good reason. I did remember to thank her for all the kindness she's shown to me since the good doctor fell ill. It was very good of her to take notice of me.

The children played very nicely as we talked, very well behaved. I told Annie just how grown up they were, and she looked so proud of them. I must go and see them more often. They grow up too fast. I never used to believe that, but it really is true.

I was rather late going back to Baker Street, as we were enjoying ourselves so much. Annie was most worried about my traveling home alone when it was after dark, but I didn't see why. She insisted that I wait until her husband arrived home, but I just couldn't wait that long. Mr. Holmes will have called me foolish, but I felt that it was best. Annie didn't believe me, but she finally let me go. Jemmy and Sadie was very disappointed when they could not come with me, but I promised that I would visit them again soon. I didn't want them out on the streets with me.

The trip home was rather ordinary, until I arrived at the door of the house. As I unlocked the door, I thought that I heard someone in the side street just a few feet from me. I don't know why it caught my attention, but I didn't like it, particularly when I heard a dog growling. I think that the dog was with the person. I thought about going to see what it was, but then decided that would be unnecessarily dangerous.

I hurried into the house and made sure to lock up tightly. That was about an hour ago. I don't think that I've heard anything else since, but I thought that there was a scratching at the door for a few moments. Whatever it was, I think that it's gone now. The constable making his rounds must have scared the thing away.

If I hear it again, I will call the police, and I will tell Inspector Lestrade when he comes tomorrow. I do wish that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were here. They would know what to do.

* * *

**Author's Note: Readers will recall Sir James Damery from **_**The Illustrious Client**_**, as found in the Case Book.**


	11. Thick Flow

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 20 June 1896.**_

Quite unexpectedly, Inspector Lestrade has arrived from London a day earlier than we had anticipated. The lady of the house, whom I would have expected to seem greatly inconvenienced by such an intrusion, greeted the inspector cordially and insisted that he was no trouble. She has given him a room across the hall from my own, as he will remain here for an indeterminate amount of time.

The inspector gave no apparent reasoning for his premature arrival, for I cannot bring myself to accept his excuse. Saying that his business finished early in London may be a perfectly logical reason under normal circumstances, but, somehow, it just does not seem right.

Having arrived three quarters of an hour ago, he has disappeared into his room saying that he has a letter to write, leaving both Holmes and myself to wonder what he is doing here. Even Holmes looked at him in a bewildered manner for a short period, although he has since appeared to have been able to put the matter out of his mind.

I fear I must stray from this entry, for Lestrade has emerged and it requesting that Holmes and I join him in his room post haste.

* * *

_Later_

Good gracious, but I was not expecting the dreadful news that Lestrade had to offer. It appears that Mr. Toulson is dead.

Evidently, there was a fire, supposedly started by a spark having flown out of the chimney. Our Mr. Toulson was found dead on the floor when a policeman entered the house in an effort to save any resident. He was carried out of the house, and thought to have suffocated in the thick smoke of the fire, for there were very few burn marks upon his person.

However, when the body was sent down to the mortuary to be identified, the police surgeon noted that his death did not appear to be a simple accident after all. Lestrade, being nothing of a medical man, stumbled slightly over the details here, but I gathered that the characteristic, cherry-red blood that is normally associated with death by asphyxiation was not present.

Death by carbon monoxide poisoning, I reasoned out before Lestrade confirmed my suspicion. When I asked if there was any chance that it could have been an accident, he looked doubtful.

"There's always that chance, but I don't think that is the case this time." He pulled a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and handed it to Holmes, who looked at it with a serious expression.

"It would appear that our Mr. Toulson is not who he claimed to be," he mused thoughtfully. "Well, we knew that much already. But I did not dare assume that he knew quite so much about the very family that we are now staying with."

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, feeling at a bit of a disadvantage with both men obviously knowing more about this than I.

"This letter," he said, brandishing it so that I could see that it was damaged by smoke, and singed in several places, "It suggests to me, from what I can decipher at such short notice, that Mr. Toulson was in some way related to the Deramore family. If I had to place a wager, I would say that he is the uncle of these children, quite probably the brother of the Lady Deramore herself."

"How can you possibly know that?" asked Lestrade in bewilderment; it was obvious that not even he had been able to get so far with the letter, having had it in his possession for quite some time.

"The manner in which this letter is written. I cannot make all of it out, for it is so damaged. But the familiarity with which our man writes suggests an intimate relationship with the recipient of the letter, who is, of course, our charming hostess."

"Do you think that she knows he is dead?" I asked, trying to ingest such a piece of information.

"I doubt it. He has been identified as his alias, not as his real name. I would doubt that the lady of the house knows his name, only that he lives a double life in London."

"Well, surely we should tell her if a man whom we suspect is her brother is dead. She has the right to know."

"Certainly, Watson," he said absently, "but I rather think that it would be difficult to explain to her exactly how we know the identity of this man."

Lestrade shook his head. "She's bound to find out sooner or later. Better from us now than making her wait."

Holmes didn't look convinced. "I'm not sure that is wise," he said.

"Nonsense. I'm going downstairs to tell the lady of the house. You can come with me if you'd like."

Holmes apparently did "like" to a certain extent, for he followed the two of us downstairs in silence. I wasn't sure that I agreed with the sentiment of letting the woman know that her brother was dead, but I didn't see how we were going to be able to convince Lestrade not to tell her. He is as stubborn as a mule when he wants to be, particularly when he disagrees with Holmes. It makes one wonder why the two of them have worked together for so long when they reach a point where they aren't quite speaking to each other. It makes them appear quite childish in any case.

Lady Deramore took the news quite well, all things considered. We met her in her sitting room, Lacey and Lancelot at her side, presumably just to visit with their mother. Holmes had drawn the line as far as Lestrade showing the lady the picture from the mortuary, but Lady Deramore insisted. I don't think that she believed us initially, truth be told.

When she saw the picture, I could see her tightening the muscles of her neck, as if in protest, although her face remained perfectly straight. She held the picture in her hand for a long moment, as though trying to decide what the best course of action to take would be.

Whether it was a purposeful action by her mother or not, the photograph strayed towards Lacey Deramore, who was able to catch a glimpse of the man. I could see her eyes widening in an instant, in utter disbelief.

"I've never seen that man before in my life," Lady Deramore said confidently, although the flexing muscles in her neck and now her fists were betraying the lie.

Before anyone could question her any further, Lacey Deramore did something completely unexpected by all who were present. She flew into a passionate hysteria, head flung into her waiting arms, tears streaming down her face, and high-pitched, gasping breaths and screams. Although to call them screams would have been quite generous, as there simply wasn't enough breath in her lungs to make such a sound.

Her brother was quite alarmed at her sudden fit, and her mother looked horrified, although I suspected the horror was simply devoted to the fact that she was acting this way in front of a number of guests.

It soon became clear that it would not be easy to calm the girl down, so Lancelot and Lestrade carried her between them upstairs to her room while I instructed Holmes to fetch my bag from my room. Once we were all in Lacey's bedroom, I had no choice but to give her a sedative, for she came too close to injuring the two men who carried her. Indeed, a rather lethal-looking blow came in contact with Lestrade's face, although he didn't flinch at her nails.

Once she was asleep, I assured Lancelot that Holmes and I would stay with her while she slept, so that I could keep an eye on her and make sure that the sedative did not have any ill effects. He seemed reluctant to leave her, but Holmes gently suggested that he inform his mother of the girl's condition. When he finally left, I noted that Lestrade had a slow dribble of blood running down his face, apparently coming from his nose, although his displeased expression made me chuckle in spite of myself.

"Would you like me to clean that for you?" I asked, concealing a further smirk when he shot me a look of vivid irritation.

"No, that's fine. I've had far worse on the job."

"I can imagine," said Holmes dryly from his perch on the arm of a chair that rested in the corner of the room. "I don't see why you're so displeased, Lestrade. I rather think that this proves your point. The man we know as Toulson obviously knew this family quite well."

"That doesn't explain why the youngest daughter would fall to pieces at the news of his death," I pointed out. "Even if he was her uncle, that seems like a rather extreme reaction."

"Under perfectly normal circumstances, I would agree with you. But we already had our suspicions that she wasn't entirely sane in any case." Holmes shrugged. "You are more of an expert than either of us, Watson, when one considers the dissociation condition. Would intense hysteria and the mood swings that we have been witness to be a characteristic of such a condition?"

I shrugged, watching Lestrade attempt to wipe away the blood on his face with his handkerchief. "Yes, I suppose that it would be. I'm not an authority on such mental conditions, Holmes."

Holmes nodded, alternating between a look of amusement at Lestrade, (who was having a surprising amount of difficulty curtailing the flow) and an expression of contemplation. "I have a feeling that she is more involved in both our cases than we could have anticipated at first sight."

"You mean the death of her brother in London as well as her sister here at the house?" asked Lestrade thickly, still rejecting my offers of assistance.

"Exactly. But we will not be able to act upon my hypothesis until she regains consciousness. How long do you expect it will be until she awakens, Watson?" asked Holmes, folding his arms and heaving a sigh.

"It'll be a number of hours. I didn't give her a great deal, but she is so small that I would expect she'll be asleep for at least two hours."

"In that case, we will take advantage of this moment to do some preliminary thinking before our conversation with the young lady." Holmes shifted so that he fell gracefully between the arms of the chair and retrieved his pipe from his jacket pocket. Taking a paper package of tobacco from another pocket, he carefully filled his pipe. "Watson, do you have a light?"

With a sigh, I moved forward and lit the pipe. "Keep the smoke away from her," I chided, nodding for him to face the other direction. "The last thing we need is for you to give her a health concern from your smoke."

He raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but compliantly turned away.

Lestrade, who appeared to have finally stemmed the flow of blood, sighed and held his bloody handkerchief in his hand. "I think that I'm going off to my room for a while to clean some of this up. I'll be back before she wakes up."

I nodded, and he left the room. Now that I was left with a contemplating detective and a sleeping girl, I couldn't help but allow myself to slip into thought. Considerations about the case, the photograph, the death of Toulson, and the reaction of Lacey Deramore flooded my mind, and I leaned back in a chair that was next to the bed, allowing my eyes to close.

* * *

**_From the private records of Inspector S. Hopkins. Entry dated 20 June 1896_**

Lestrade has gone to the house of the late Mr. Clay's family. At least, that's what he says. I'm still not sure if I agree with him. The man wasn't identified as Dera-whatsit. He was identified as Clay. But, as it appears to be out of my hands, there's nothing I can do other than pursue the Toulson murder case.

That was one judgment about the case that I did agree with Lestrade about. The police surgeon was adamant about the fact that he was poisoned, and I think that most of us agree that it was deliberate, and not just an accident in the home. It's quite a fascinating development to the case, and I was rather intrigued, to be entirely honest. I never liked the man, so I can't exactly say that I'm sorry that he's dead. But it's my job to make sure that justice is served, and justice will be served, for it is my duty to make sure that the filthy murderer is caught and put behind bars. The sooner the better.

I find it a bit difficult to know where to start, as we know so little about his family. The life that he gave us was obviously false. He can't have spent much time building it up, but that's my opinion. If Lestrade thinks that he's got a lead with the Deramore family, then I wish him the best of luck. I'll see what I can do here in London in his absence.

With any luck, I'll have the case all wrapped up before the good inspector and the detective return to London. It is my case, after all, and not theirs.


	12. Baggage

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 20 June 1896.**_

It did not take very long for the lady of the house to force her way past Lestrade and into the room of her unconscious daughter. And, under normal circumstances, I would have fully understood her concern. Perhaps it was unfair of me, but I found myself wondering why she was displaying such a show of disquiet after several days of obviously not caring about her children.

She burst her way into the bedroom, and I chided her in a low hiss for her behavior, telling her that it would not be good at all to wake the sick girl. Although she looked quite angry at my words, I could see that she understood my meaning.

Quietly, and with some difficulty, she made her way toward the bed to sit on the foot, her eyes gazing into the face of her daughter. I couldn't quiet place the expression on her face. Was it regret? Bitterness?

"Why were you there when your brother killed your son?"

Lady Deramore jumped, though whether her reaction was due to the question or the fact that she hadn't seen Holmes in his quiet corner of the room, I couldn't quite say. She turned her head around to examine his face, while he returned her gaze with a cool expression of curiosity. "I don't know what you mean."

"I wondered if you were responsible when I saw your hands," Holmes continued amiably.

"My hands?" she repeated, obviously bewildered.

As was I. I frowned down at her lap, where she now hid her hands from my view, refusing to meet my gaze. True to form, Holmes had managed to see what the rest of us had missed.

The door was pushed open to reveal Lestrade, who quietly came and took a position of authority inside the door, closing it behind him. I could tell that he had been listening from outside the door where he had been playing guard. His expression was puzzled, but he knew what was going on. He knew, as I did, that it was only a matter of time until everything would be revealed.

"The police missed one key detail when the body of your son was examined."

"And what was that?" she asked stiffly. It was extremely unnerving how her eyes never blinked as she simply stared down at her hands.

"There were two sets of hand marks on his neck. Two distinct personages. A smaller pair of hands, a pair that was not successful in the strangulation. A larger pair of hands that presumably finished the job. "Holmes flexed his fingers as though recalling a memory of the event. "Presumably you found yourself unable to finish the job because of the affliction that plagues your hands. You must have felt a great deal of hatred to have even tried, what with the state your hands are in."

"Hold on," said Lestrade, shifting his weight. "You're saying that Lady Deramore here killed her son, but she had an accomplice. Who in the world would be willing to help her? And why?"

"Oh, that much is simple, Lestrade," said Holmes, a glimmer of regret on his face. "I should have seen it from the start. I'd suspected, but I didn't realize…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Go on," I said, casting a glance down at my patient, who had yet to stir. Her hair covered her face, and I resisted the urge to smooth it back for fear of angering the mother.

"It was our Mr. Toulson, of course." He paused, allowing the information to soak into those of us who were gathered. "As you are already aware, he is the brother of her ladyship. I suppose that she should be grateful of the fact that her brother is so willing to help her. Even when there are certain… adventures that she wishes him to undertake that are somewhat less than moral."

"This is slanderous," said Lady Deramore, bristling and apparently bringing life back into herself in order to protest the allegations. "You have absolutely no proof. If what you say is true, why would I order his death? I love my brother, as do my children. Even though he was a witness, he had more to lose than I."

"Perhaps. But you did kill your son with his help, and you did not order his death. Neither did you kill him yourself."

"Then who did?" asked Lestrade, his expression being one of disbelief.

The question was apparently unexpected, and Holmes paused for a long moment, obviously feeling the eyes on his form. "I don't know," he said finally, although I don't believe that any of us took that answer to be the truth. "But I expect that all we have to do is speak to the landlady of our Mr. Toulson to be able to discover exactly who Mr. Toulson really was."

"You don't know that he's my brother," protested Lady Deramore, grasping at straws.

Holmes threw up his hand, pursing his lips. "Please, Lady Deramore, do not think that you can deceive us in this manner. We all know what you did…"

She looked terrified; it was obvious that she knew that she was caught. I could see her wondering what she could do. There wasn't much. "I won't confess. I'm not a murderer."

"Whether or not you are a murderer, you're hardly a mother," I felt obliged to add. "You could never call your children your own after what you've done to them."

"I did it for their own good," she spat, apparently not feeling any need to disguise her abusive tendencies. "They came from too many backgrounds with too many ideas of their own. They all needed to be brought to the same level. They deserved it after I realized what they were…"

"What they were?" asked Lestrade, and this time his bewilderment was enough to almost make me chuckle. I'd forgotten that he knew nothing about how the lady of the house had repeatedly abused her children ever since their adoption. For a moment, I regretted bringing it up; it was not a topic that I was happy to know so much about. It was almost too terrible to tell, but Lestrade had very likely seen a great deal worse in his time as an inspector at Scotland Yard.

"The mental abuse was so much worse than the physical," said Holmes softly, and anger was slowly appearing behind his eyes. "You broke them. Every single one of them. You drove one to madness, the rest to fear and hatred. Why did you kill your son?"

Apparently the goading was enough. A curious mixture of hatred and tears came over her face, and she hissed, "I wouldn't expect a man like you to ever understand. What he had done to me. It was intolerable. He needed to die." The words were spoken in choppy, incomplete sentences for some sort of emphasis, although I suspected that the shrill breath in her lungs was keeping her from speaking faster. "He was insolent, and he was going to tell. He was going to get my children taken away from me. All of them. And I couldn't let that happen."

"You'd disowned him. What did you think was going to happen?" Evidently, Lestrade knew that much.

"He'd sworn that he wouldn't tell… He was a damn liar." Her eyes had a certain amount of flame in them and I half expected her to spring at Holmes at any second. "I had to make sure that he would stop."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "She's mad," I breathed, setting my chin into my hand and trying to take all of this in.

"I came to visit him in his home in London. I tried to tell him to stop. He tried to attack me. He was always madder than I ever was. I'd never seen him like that. He would have…" she trailed off, her face going scarlet, "If my brother hadn't stopped him."

The pieces were going together in my mind, and I sucked in my breath as I realized what she was implying, unable to look at her. My face burned as I shook my head in horror. Surely such an attempt was not worth coldblooded murder…

"I didn't want to kill him before. But he had to die. He had to die." The phrase was becoming a mantra as though she was trying to convince herself that she had been right to do the deed. "I didn't know what else to do. I didn't think straight." She stared directly at Lestrade, who also seemed unable to look at her. "But I didn't kill Virginia. I swear to you that I had nothing to do with her death. I was just as surprised as everyone else in the house."

"I believe you," Holmes said gently. I could see that he was still disapproving of the murder that she did commit. But he was able to keep a calm air about him as he spoke nonetheless. "I think you know who did."

Her eyes dropped. "I don't _know_."

"But you have your suspicions."

"Perhaps. But I don't have to share them with you." Her gaze was steady, unwavering, challenging. "Not now in any case."

"I think you should share them now," said Lestrade from his position by the door. "I don't want to have to arrest you for withholding evidence as well as murder. Or attempted murder if I'm to believe what Mr. Holmes here is saying."

She glared at him. "Tomorrow. I need some time to collect my thoughts. I discovered something today that has changed my views on the death of my daughter. I'm not ready to speak of it yet."

"I urge you to speak now," said Holmes, and the concern in his voice was real. "It could be very dangerous for you if you don't tell us everything that you know."

She shook her head stubbornly. "I don't have to tell you anything, Mr. Holmes. Not after the way that you have treated me in my own home. I must ask that all of you leave myself and my daughter. Immediately."

I opened my mouth to protest as a doctor, but she waved me down. She no longer spoke, just waited with an iron presence for us to leave. I could see that Lestrade wanted to argue the point, but Holmes seemed to realize that there was nothing he would be able to do. He nodded for the two of us to follow him as he left the room in silence.

Since that incredible episode, I found that I realized what Holmes had been referring to when he had mentioned her hands. It had seemed insignificant before, so much so that I had barely noticed it, but Lady Deramore suffered rheumatism in her hands. The mere fact that she attempted to strangle a grown man when she has trouble controlling a writing utensil seemed incredible to me. It was proof of the fact that she really was as insane as I had thought. Her son's death was a moment of madness on her part, but the uncle killed deliberately and perhaps not just because his sister had instructed him to do so. It still didn't explain why Lacey had reacted so hysterically to his death, but it was a start. One murder had been cleared up most efficiently. I only hope that we will be able to clear up the second before something dreadful happens.

* * *

_**The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 21 June 1896**_

The lovely Mrs. Watson has finally arrived in London once more, and for that I am very glad. Naturally, she was upset about the fact that her husband has not yet returned to the flat. I have told her that she is welcome to stay with me in Baker Street until the doctor returns, for I do not think it wise for her to remain alone with the streets the way that they've been as of late. Thankfully, she agreed that it would be for the best.

Having heard of Mary Watson's return to London, Annie Lestrade invited the both of us for tea this evening, eager to catch up with her dear friend. It had been a long while since the three of us had enjoyed a meal together. As the little Lestrades played at our feet, I found myself heartily enjoying the meeting. It was homey, an experience that I have not had since my boys left Baker Street. One needs companionship when one is troubled.

Annie lamented the fact that her husband has joined Mr. Holmes and the doctor in the country house of the wealthy family. I told her that I hoped his presence would mean that they would be able to finish their business soon, thereby returning home to us soon. Mary agreed wholeheartedly; it's hardest on her, for she has not seen Dr. Watson in a very long time.

It was wonderful to be able to enjoy a bit of small talk, and I was very sad when it was time to leave. With a solemn promise that she would invite us again very soon, Annie Lestrade waved the two of us off. We decided to hail a hansom in order to avoid any mischief makers that might be on the way back to the flat.

Mary was quiet during the ride, and I could see that she was weary. Her journey to London took about two full days and nights of traveling when it should only have taken about six hours. She is not one for traveling long distances, but I wondered if there was something that she wasn't telling me.

And I was certainly correct in my wonderings. When I asked her if she was alright, she gave me a sweet, beautiful smile that made her entire face glow so brightly that I wanted to hug her. Her unspoken answer was enough for me, and I kissed her forehead to congratulate her. The dear, sweet girl…

I expect that she hasn't told her husband yet, and I do disapprove of that. But she's promised me that she'll tell him as soon as he returns to Baker Street, for she doesn't want to distract him while he is working on the case. I'm not sure I approve of that answer, but it is her news to give, and not mine. I'll be content to be witness to the doctor's reaction. What a day that will be. It can't come soon enough, I must say.


	13. Unbearable Deceit

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 22 June 1896.**_

Lady Cecilia Deramore is a fool.

It pains me to be required to say so, but I fear that it is the truth. Her stubborn hesitation to tell us what she knew of her daughter's death has made it necessary for her to pay the ultimate price. How could she have not predicted that such an event would happen when she made it perfectly clear to her children that she knew which of them had murdered their sister? I do not understand. I am numb.

Unlike before with the death of Toulson, the murderer did nothing to disguise the crime. Lady Deramore was found stabbed to death in her bed. My initial examination shows at least four wounds to the chest alone; more than one reached her heart and death was instantaneous. A proper examination in the operating room will give me a better idea of specifics.

It would appear that there was no struggle. The woman was killed in her sleep. Whether or not she woke is unclear, but I would guess that she did not. Her murderer wanted her to pay, but did not want to deal with her awakening and rousing the household. It appears that she was drugged to paralyze her while the deed was being done.

Holmes was unsurprised at the horribly grisly sight, but his eyes were sad as he examined the scene. "The killer was right handed," he said softly, as though trying to push the horror out of his mind by carrying on with the investigation. "See by the angle of the wounds."

"Lacey is left handed," I said, finally covering the bloody face with a sheet from the bed.

"Lacey killed her sister, but not her mother."

"What?" I breathed, freezing in place for a moment to allow the sentence to sink into my mind. "What are you talking about?"

He was silent, just shaking his head at the fact that anyone would be coldhearted enough to do something like this. "Does Lestrade know about this death?"

"He's on his way."

"Good. He will want to hear this."

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie Lestrade. Entry dated 22 June 1896.**_

Good God, but I cannot believe what I have been through this day. The children are greatly upset and missing their father, and I must say that I am not far behind them.

Inspector Hopkins visited the house this morning, looking extremely pale and shaky. Geoff had told him to check in on myself and the children while he was away to make sure that we have everything we need. But I found myself realizing that Inspector Hopkins needed my help a great deal more than I needed his.

I immediately sat him down when he entered, for he looked as though he would not be able to stand on his own two feet for much longer. I shooed the children out of the room; they looked frightened at the inspector's condition and I needed to be able to concentrate on the problem at hand. I promised them that I would explain everything to them later and told them that the man simply felt ill. He would be just fine. I hoped that the verdict would be as cheerful as I was promising my children.

It didn't take long for me to realize that it wouldn't be as easy as I'd hoped. His heartbeat was so fast that I thought it might leap out of his chest altogether and dash off. His arms were flailing in all directions, nearly smacking me upside the face more than once. He was mumbling something that I couldn't understand, and the way that he clutched his midsection frightened me. I realized that this was too much for me to handle on my own.

With a promise that I would be right back, I dashed out onto the street to find someone who would be able to help me get him to hospital. There was one man who stood out to me immediately and I hurried forward to ask him for assistance. He told me that he could get him as far as a hansom if I promised to deliver a message to my husband.

Now that I look back on it, I realize that it was foolish of me not to wonder how he knew the identity of my husband like that. But I agreed and he handed me a folded piece of paper, which I tucked into the pocket of my apron. We carried the inspector to a hansom, I asked a neighbor to look after my children, and we hurried off to hospital to find help.

I remained with him as long as I could. The doctors told me that his symptoms were characteristic to an overdose of cocaine. I was shocked; I couldn't ever place the inspector as one who would have need of such a substance.

But there was nothing more I could do. The inspector's wife had arrived by that point, and she thanked me for what I had done to help her husband. I assured her that it was my pleasure, and told her that I must get back to my children.

It wasn't until now that I remembered the note that the man had given me. I read it and it's frightened me. I don't know whether I should telephone it to Geoff or not. The message isn't for him; it's for Mr. Holmes. It's a warning. The inspector was poisoned.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 22 June 1896**_

I was quite surprised to see Annie Lestrade at the door of the house so soon after our tea. But I fear that this was not just a social call, though I do wish that I could say it was.

She appeared at our door a while after midday, looking rumpled and tearstained. Her appearance was so startling that I invited her into the hall without even stopping to ask her what she was doing there. Mary came in, looking tired and ill but her face nearly cleared as soon as she saw that her friend was in need of help. I feel for the poor woman, for the early stages of her condition are never easy, but she appears to have been more ill than is normal. We all react differently to the coming of children, and she is no exception. With that said, I do have to say that I cannot remember my own childbearing years with much clarity, so her condition may be quite normal.

We brought Annie into the kitchen and I put the kettle on immediately. A cup of tea was obviously just what she needed to help calm down so that she could tell us what the matter was. Of course, I was right and she accepted the cup gratefully. She sipped in silence as I poured myself a cup and a cup for Mary, who was still holding Annie's hand as she had done since Annie had entered the house. There was a long silence as I stirred my cup and I couldn't help but feel tenderly impatient at her. I wanted so much to help but I felt useless when I didn't know what the problem was.

Finally, she was able to speak and told us that Inspector Hopkins from Scotland Yard had arrived ill at her house that morning. She'd had no choice but to take him to hospital, where they told her that he'd been poisoned. And as if that weren't enough, she was given a note threatening Mr. Holmes. She was very upset and did not know what to do.

I wished that I could offer more help, but the news sent my mind blank for a time. We all sat in silence, digesting tea and information. It was all too unexpected.

How I wish that was all the news that she had. But, alas, it wasn't. She had been returning home with the intention of disposing of the note without ever delivering it, when a different man trapped her in an alleyway and threatened her children if she failed to do what she had been told. She had checked with her neighbor to make certain that the little ones were all right, and then had hurried along to Baker Street to get help. We knew that the only thing we could do was to call the menfolk.

But Mr. Holmes is out of contact; I cannot get a soul to answer the telephone at the great house. I don't know what to do. All I can do is hope that Mr. Holmes and the doctor return soon. I only wish that we could greet them with better news. I've told Annie that she and the children must stay here until the man return, and she has agreed.

I will keep trying to call the house until someone can get the message through.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 22 June 1896.**_

Inspector Lestrade was not surprised at the death of the lady of the house; I must say that none of us were. Saddened, but not surprised. Unfortunately, that was a lot more than I could say for the children of the house, who do not seem particularly grieved, simply surprised that one of them managed to get up the backbone required to kill. Apparently, their mother's death was almost welcome. I cannot even begin to voice how disgusted I am by the lot of them.

Which led me to beg the question: Why didn't Holmes foresee this tragedy? Why didn't he stop it?

When I asked him so, he looked upon me with the most mortal, dreadfully desolate eyes. He sat himself down on the trunk that rested at the end of his bed, staring into the wall for a long moment, so that I wondered if he would answer me at all. Then, he looked up at me and simply shook his head.

"There was nothing we could have done," he said, dropping his eyes again.

"I don't understand, Holmes," I said. I must confess that I felt a certain twinge of guilt for asking, as he looked so pained, but it couldn't be helped. A woman had died. Died horribly… "Didn't you know that she was going to die?"

"How could I have known? The only other person in the room was unconscious, if your prescribing hand may be counted upon." The excuse was flat, and he knew it. "I expected that her words would expect the murderer to act, but he was a fool to act when he did. I had thought that he was more clever than that. I refuse to say that he outwitted me, but his stupidity surprised me."

Before I could press the point any further, a knock sounded upon the door and Lestrade entered the room. His face said that he had seen the body. "What is this, Holmes?" he asked, coming to stand next to me against the wall. "What do we do now? I thought that she was the killer. Her and her brother. They killed the son in London and the girl here. End of the story. And now I know that you're going to tell me that there was more to this. So did she kill her son or didn't she?" His voice betrayed anger and he didn't seem able to look at either of us.

"Of course she did, Lestrade," said Holmes, appearing to come back to life in an instant, as though only to spite the inspector.

"Did she kill the daughter?"

"No, of course not."

Lestrade threw his hands in the air and almost seemed to growl. "Holmes, you'd better have a damn good explanation for all of this. People are dying, and you've done absolutely nothing to stop it."

"Then go and arrest Lancelot. And Lacey. Both of them."

I was not the only one who simply stared at Holmes with an open mouth; Lestrade looked positively shell-shocked. "What are you saying, Holmes?" I asked, trying to understand. "Wait. I think…"

"You saw yourself, inspector, that the two of them were as thick as thieves. Which of the children had the most compassion for his sister?" Holmes was on his feet now, smoothing his waistcoat and tugging at his jacket. "Lancelot had studied her disability, that much we know. He convinced her to kill their sister so that her mental condition would be blamed if they were found out. But he didn't want to risk asking her to kill their mother. She'd been under too much stress since Virginia's death. Asking her to complete two murders in such a short amount of time could have shattered her mind, and that would mean that his alibi would be lost."

"But why would he want to kill any of them?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes froze for a moment, and I couldn't place his hesitation as ignorance or the cooking of a lie. "Inheritance, my dear inspector. Those who benefited from Lady Deramore's will."

Lestrade nodded slowly, still looking bewildered.

"Go and arrest him, inspector. Lacey will be dealt with by myself and Watson. Sending her to prison could seriously damage her."

"Quite so."

Holmes has not offered any further explanation for his behavior since then, but he has informed me that we will be returning to London in the morning. I can only hope that he'll be in a more talkative mood.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 22 June 1896**_

Mr. Holmes and the doctor will be returning to London on tomorrow's train. I do say that the threatening message did not make any sense whatsoever to me, but I know that it has upset Mr. Holmes greatly when I finally was able to reach him. Annie and Mary were relieved to hear that their husbands will be returning soon, and that the business at the house appears to be cleared up. I know that I won't be letting either of them out of my sight until the men have returned.


End file.
